Fire and Water
by tiylaya
Summary: As a rescue mission goes from bad to worse, the members of International Rescue realise the cost of their work, and its true value. A Thunderbirds television universe story, with Stingray crossover.
1. Chapter 1

**Fire and Water**

_As a rescue mission goes from bad to worse, the members of International Rescue realise the cost of their work, and its true value. A _Thunderbirds_ (television universe) story, but with _Stingray_ crossover._

This is my first Thunderbirds story, and I would appreciate honest criticism as much as I would praise. Do point out spelling, grammar and plot problems, by private message if you prefer. I apologise unreservedly in advance for any factual errors or misinterpretation of canon characters or situations on my part.

I also apologise for making this a crossover, albeit one very much from the Thunderbirds point of view. I needed a submarine, and Stingray was lurking comfortably in the background of the Thunderbirds universe. In the absence of any information on screen, I've assumed for the purposes of this story that the events of Stingray start a few years before and continue simultaneously with the events in Thunderbirds.

Above all, I hope you enjoy this. I'm not too proud to beg: feedback is vital to improving as a writer, and I know I have a long way to go, so please read and review.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

The flames were already leaping a hundred feet in the air as Scott swung Thunderbird One around for a landing. He gritted his teeth, keeping a death grip on the skittish craft's controls. Thermals buffeted him, the fire-driven wind gusting at unexpected times and in unexpected directions. Thunderbird One didn't have the mass or stability of her sister craft. She was the thoroughbred in the stable, designed for fast-response and rapid, precise manoeuvring. Today she felt like the unbroken colt at a rodeo.

It was a relief to get her on the ground, but Scott didn't waste time on the emotion. Before her engines had cycled down to standby, he was out of his seat and heading back into the bulk of his rocket-plane. His expression and movements were focused and intent, but hurried, knowing there was no time to lose. The inferno at the oil refinery was out of control. With one of its landing platforms already engulfed by flames and the second - suspended precariously on the low cliff-top above the refinery's offshore pipeline - overcrowded with evacuation helicopters, he'd been forced into a far from optimal touch-down location.

Scott eyed the rough track he'd landed on with dismay. Getting his mobile control unit to the scene would take most of the thirty minutes before Thunderbird Two arrived. For two cents he'd have forgone the formal set-up and kept One in the air to monitor and coordinate the situation from above. Unfortunately, one glance at the scene had told him that wasn't going to happen. Even if he could have held his Thunderbird steady against the updraft, John had reported that a dozen workers were trapped in the ruins of the control building. If International Rescue was going to locate them, they'd need the best sensors Brains could offer - and that meant using the MCU.

"This is Thunderbird One. Leaving to establish Mobile Control Unit."

"F.A.B., Scott," John's voice came through at once, ahead of their father's intake of breath by a millisecond, and Scott suppressed a smile. It was one of Jeff Tracy's niggling annoyances that John could beat him to a response simply because his messages only had to travel one way from Thunderbird Five rather than being relayed from Earth to the space station and back again. Gordon and Alan had a running wager on how long it would be before Jeff would admit that to his space-based son.

"On the scene in twenty-six minutes, Scott."

Virgil's voice forced his elder brother to concentrate. With the ease of long practice, he typed the sequence of buttons that would drop the MC unit and its small hover unit from the belly of the ship, and a second code that released the locks on the outer doors so he could join it on the ground.

A siren-adorned truck was already tearing up the path toward him and he spared the men aboard a quick smile as he locked the Thunderbird behind him. It pulled to a stop in the shadow of Thunderbird One's wings and Scott jumped up to the cab, standing for a moment on the broad, mud-streaked caterpillar tracks. He nodded down at his equipment.

"Here to give me a lift, fellas?"

* * *

The ride into the refinery was a journey into Dante's Inferno. Scott held an arm across his face, trying to protect his nose and mouth from the hot ash stinging his exposed skin. Even filtered through his sleeve, the air tasted thick and heavy. The heat of it had dried his throat into something approaching sandpaper and he coughed, struggling to draw breath so he could speak.

"I need to be close to the trapped men – and find somewhere I can talk to your controllers." He hesitated, momentarily light-headed. This wasn't good. The fire was intense enough even to suck the oxygen from the air. He forced himself to concentrate. "My people will need to know what's going on and that everyone's out of their way before I can give them instructions."

The driver nodded, drawing them to a halt beside a six storey building in the centre of the complex. Its central tower was flanked on either side by low two storey wings and Scott could see from here that while most of the building was intact and looked stable, the southern annex was in ruins. It must have taken the brunt of the blast when the pipeline running inland from the coastal refinery blew.

The driver coughed into the scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face. "The bosses are still up in the tower." The man jumped down, turning to unhook the IR hover-sled from the back of the vehicle. Scott followed, grabbing the man's arm to attract his attention.

"I thought everyone had been given the order to evacuate!" he said sharply. His arm dropped away as the driver shrugged.

"This is a Tracy Industries plant, mister," he said with a hint of a smile creasing the skin around his eyes. "We look after our own. The guys up there won't leave until everyone's out." The smile faded as he saw the shocked and concerned look on Scott's face. His eyes returned to the caved-in southern wing and then to the fires visible in every direction. "If it were just the collapse we could get to them no problem."

"But with the fires moving so fast," Scott picked up the man's sentence where he left off, "you're not going to be in time." He clapped his hands, picking up the remote control for the hover-sled. "That's why you called International Rescue. Let's get this show on the road."

* * *

Amazing how emergency could become mundane. Oh, the thrill of the call and the pounding tension of placing his brothers' lives in danger would never fade away. But in the enclosed administration tower, with the conditioned air tasting only faintly of smoke, setting up the Mobile Control Unit felt almost routine. The two men here on the top floor had introduced themselves as the director of the refinery and its resource manager. Scott nodded, gave them his most reassuringly competent nod, and dismissed their names instantly from his memory. Truth be told, he found the occasional, half-glimpsed Tracy Industries insignia more distracting than the concern of the two middle managers.

There were times when he forgot he had a day job as his Dad's assistant in addition to his secret identity as International Rescue's field commander. He'd never been to this plant, or the dozen or so offshore drilling rigs it serviced. In the normal course of events, he probably would never have come here. Despite that, the man outside had robbed him of a little of his usual detachment. The driver had been right, although he'd never know it. The Tracy boys would look after their own.

Mobile Control came online with a purr of computer disks spinning up and a chiming test of half a dozen different buzzers and alarms. The cacophony came and went in a moment, almost unnoticed, lost in the sound of a dozen gas storage units exploding like a row of dominoes.

"The fire has reached sector five," the refinery's director noted and there was a tremor in his voice. Scott gritted his teeth, his eyes glued to his own screens. They were running out of time.

He'd worried that the control unit might have been damaged by the debris that had fallen around the tractor that brought him in. If so, there was no sign of it. The MCU responded smoothly to his commands, sending sensor impulses out both through open broadcast and along the building's wiring. It picked up the echoes and resonances, its advanced processors working overtime to build them into a three dimensional picture, even as John transmitted a blueprint of the building he was in to overlay them on.

Scott stared for a moment in disbelief at the mass of signals that the unit eventually settled on. With a quick flick of his controls, he rotated the image on two axes, trying to get a feel for the three dimensional layout of the place. The three blinking lights in the upper storeys had to be himself and the managers with him. The north wing appeared deserted, although a warning light signalled that smoke was percolating through it, the windows presumably smashed by the ongoing stream of concussions. That was fine. That was what he was expecting.

More concerning were the upwards of thirty signals in and around the south wing of the building.

"Your call only said a dozen men trapped!"

"That's what we think." The resource manager nodded, the motion a little too rapid and repeated a little too often. Scott made a mental note in his triage list, to be dealt with when there was time. The man was in shock. Nonetheless, the manager's eyes widened as he took in the detailed image on Scott's screen. He grabbed for a hand held radio before Scott had time to take in more than the basics of the situation.

"Emergency team one - there are people trapped in the south-west stairwell. Team two - are you still trying to get into the coffee room? Looks like you've got half a dozen folks in there."

The mass of blobs that had appeared to be clustered in the rubble of the building resolved themselves into a more coherent whole. He could make out three groups, each of half a dozen men, not trapped in the collapse, but moving across the face of it. As he watched one of the groups broke off, moving at a careful trot towards the south-western corner of the ruined building.

Scott nodded, a genuine smile lighting his face. He should have expected his Dad's firms to be more organised than most. "Nice to see a facility with an emergency plan of its own!"

His smile faded and he turned back to the monitor, frowning in concentration. The group of six men he guessed must be team three were grouped in front of the massive heat flare that engulfed the south-eastern corner. They must be fighting the fire back, giving their colleagues time. It wasn't going to be enough.

He gestured towards the screen, turning to the two managers. "These two people in the basement. It looks like the stairwells and corridors to that level have collapsed. Am I right?" He didn't wait for their assent. As the driver had said, they could get to most of their people, given the time. These two were International Rescue's. Leaning across the unit, Scott flipped the switch that linked him to his team.

"This is Mobile Control. Virgil, what's your ETA?"

"Approaching the danger zone now, Scott. Coming in to land in two minutes."

Scott nodded, his eyes instinctively going towards the windows. The great green mass of Thunderbird Two had rarely been a more welcome sight. The bulkiest ship of the Thunderbird fleet wallowed in the thick air, high enough for her engines not to fan the flames, low enough that the constantly changing fire-glow reflected from her flat belly.

"Great, Virge. Which pod did you bring?"

The calm voice of Thunderbird Two's pilot held a note of surprise as he answered. "Three, and I've got Alan and Gordon aboard. Isn't that what Dad told us?"

Scott rubbed the back of one hand across his eyes, trying to clear the gritty feeling.

"Guess I was wishing we had the Mole rather than the Firefly on this one. We've got some workers trapped in a sub-basement. We'll have to clear the fire back first and go down on foot."

"Yeah," Virgil's voice was distracted, and behind him, Scott could hear the voices of his younger brothers. He looked up again toward the windows, startled to see Thunderbird Two swinging back over the site in what, for the heavy craft, was a tight loop.

"Mobile Control to Thunderbird Two, is there a problem?"

"Ah, Scott." This time it was Gordon on the line and the anxiety in his voice put Scott immediately on alert. The perspiration already marking his brow turned cold. "You parked out east-aways, yes?"

"I ..." Swivelling his seat in front of the control unit, Scott turned to look out from his eighth floor vantage point towards the path he'd been driven down. The path now blocked by the series of gas explosions he'd barely noticed.

"Mobile Control," Virgil's voice was tight, the unease in it clearly audible. That was never a good sign. "I'm seeing flames surrounding your position in a three hundred and sixty degree circuit."

"And they're closing in." Alan sounded on the verge of panic, and Scott didn't need to see his face to know his bright blue eyes would be wide with fear. "Scott! You're trapped!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird Five."

Virgil had seldom been so glad of John's calm voice. Their second oldest brother had cut across the line in time to head off Alan's near hysteria, and at the perfect moment to give Scott time to catch his breath.

"Thunderbird Two." Virgil kept his voice level, a task almost as difficult as keeping the aircraft steady with his trembling hands.

"I'm bringing up satellite imaging of the danger zone. It looks like you'll have almost a mile of the burning refinery to traverse in the Firefly. How long will that take?"

Virgil made himself concentrate on the non-trivial calculation. "If we had an open path, it would be five minutes. With the paths blocked, I ... I'm not sure. Depends on the temperatures we encounter. If Brains' new flame retardant can actually keep the tires from melting… I don't know - maybe three quarters of an hour?"

"There are upwards of thirty people on the ground here." Gordon struggled for the cool professionalism in his brothers' voices. "Even if the Firefly gets through, it can't clear a flame-free path that'll stay clear long enough to get that many out."

"Negative." Scott's voice was as rock-steady as Virgil had ever heard him. Virgil felt his own nerves ease a little and saw Alan sigh, slumping a little in his chair as his brother's voice reassured him. John's timely intervention had given them all the jolt they needed to start thinking again rather than simply feeling. "The people here calculate this building will be engulfed by the firestorm surrounding it in half an hour. After that, even the Firefly won't get through." He paused and Virgil could practically hear him gritting his teeth. "I'm open to suggestions here."

There was a long moment of silence, punctuated only by the firing of Thunderbird Two's retros as Virgil brought her in to land beside her forlorn sister ship. He pressed the button, ordering the start of the automatic pod deployment procedure, but no one moved. Not yet. Right now, every minute they could spend on the radio to Scott was too precious to give up. Virgil brushed his brown hair out of his eyes and gave a strangled laugh, not able to stand the strained silence.

"What I wouldn't give for a little rain right now."

"A little rain would make it worse." Alan groaned, burying his head in his hands. "The oxygen and hydrogen would fuel the fire before it cooled it off. We need to smother it, not feed it."

"You'd want a _lot_ of water to make a difference," Gordon agreed, throwing off his seatbelt and beginning to pace Thunderbird Two's small cockpit.

"Gordon." Despite the tension, Scott's voice held a note of quiet humour. "You always want a lot of water."

Gordon pacing stalled in front of the portside window, a moment before Virgil was about to grab him and make him stand still. The cabin of Thunderbird Two stood fifteen metres off the ground. Resting on the edge of the ten metre bluffs, it seemed as if the entire sweep of windows was filled with the ocean. Gordon stared unseeing across the grey-blue water, trying to draw strength from its vastness, trying to drown the flames roaring in his head with the gentle lapping of waves.

"If only there was some way of getting it up from down there," he muttered aloud.

"That could be, ah, it, Gordon!"

Virgil jumped, his heart in his throat. He'd all but forgotten that the folks back at base would be listening in on their signals. Even the familiar stutter from Brains had shocked him.

"What, Brains?" Scott called at once, and for the first time in several minutes the businesslike tone of International Rescue's field commander was back in his voice.

"The p..p..problem isn't so much the trapped men as the f..fire right now."

"We know that, Brains!" Even John couldn't keep the frustration out of his voice.

"And p...putting out the fire will require more w..water than the Thunderbirds can carry."

"Get to the point, Brains." That was Jeff Tracy's distinctive growl.

"B..but what if there was a way to, ah, drag water out of the o..ocean and onto the danger zone?"

"These bluffs are a dozen metres high!" Alan's outburst was angry and more than a little sarcastic. Instinctively, Virgil turned and laid a hand on his youngest brother's arm, only for Alan to shrug it off violently. "Do you want us to get the water to fly?"

"There's an underwater s..shelf, just about five meters off shore, ah, running for several hundred kilometres n..north to south. The s..sea bed drops to, ah, about a hundred metres – enough to support quite a significant whirlpool. W..waterspouts can reach a h..h..height of s..several tens of metres, Alan."

"Of course!" Gordon's eyes were shining now, and his hands had clenched into fists by his side. "And dumping that much water on the fires should dissipate enough of the heat to put them out."

There was a thud from the space station, and Virgil realised with a shock that John had punched the communications console there in excited relief, letting the full extent of his strain show for the first time. "Can we do it, Brains?"

Virgil realised he was crouching forward in his chair, his hands gripping the armrests white-knuckled. He loosened his fingers forcibly, reaching out to start the pod closing again. The Firefly wouldn't be needed. As Scott had said, it simply wasn't going to work. They had a better idea now. "There isn't another option. We have to."

* * *

"Alan, correct your attitude two degrees left."

Virgil rolled his eyes, unable to resist a smile, even as he glanced at his scanner to see what their big brother was complaining about. In the fire-encircled Mobile Control, Scott would be keeping both eyes locked to his own screens. He was nervous of letting anyone else touch Thunderbird One's controls at the best of times. Allowing their youngest brother take the Thunderbird up through the turbulence from the fires had strained Scott's nerves to breaking point.

And the occasional squeak of terror from Gordon probably wasn't helping. Glancing at his control panel, Virgil opened a private channel to Thunderbird One's tiny passenger compartment. Sure enough, Gordon's skin was shockingly pale against his golden-red hair.

"Okay there, Gordo?"

"Remind me never to complain about your flying again."

Virgil laughed. "I'll hold you to that. To be fair, Alan's not doing badly all things considered. Look, we need you to do this. Scott needs you."

On the tiny screen set into the control panel, Gordon swallowed hard. "Alan can't handle steering and the antigravs at the same time. I know." He managed a wan grin. "I'll be fine, Virge."

"I'm sure ..." Virgil sighed as the radio chirped, cutting across the private channel. "Got to go, Gordon." He flicked the radio back onto the main IR frequency without looking, and nodded once in response to his father's suggestion that they all be careful. His eyes returned automatically to his own status display as Jeff Tracy signed off. Hmm, he was getting close to his designated starting point. He slowed, only now taking the opportunity to look out of his panoramic windows. Below him, the surface of the ocean rippled in the light of the setting sun. Streaks of salmon pink and scarlet cloud bracketed the sunset, the light reflected from them making the water seem warm and alive. Buried in the pall of smoke, now just a distant blur on the horizon, he'd had no idea of the beauty waiting just beyond the horror.

With his brother's life in danger and his stomach twisted into tight knots of anxiety, there was no time to enjoy it now.

"Thunderbird Two coming up on position," he reported on the open channel. "Will circle until needed."

"We'll see who gets dizzy first then."

Virgil frowned. Alan's voice didn't sound like that of his fun-loving little brother. It was filled with the determination that he was used to hearing from Scott and the calm assurance that was all John's.

Scott's voice, by contrast, was full of uncharacteristic anxiety. "This is too dangerous. We can think of something else. We should abort."

"No time, Scott," Alan told him firmly. They were using an audio-only channel, the better to avoid distracting one another. Even so, Virgil could imagine the stubborn expression on the younger man's face. "And remember it's not just you down there to rescue." There was a drop in the volume, Alan turning away from the microphone to see back into the passenger compartment. "Ready, Gordon?" Alan's voice came back more strongly. "Right." His tone became formal. "Mobile Control and Base, this is Thunderbird One. Commencing run."

Alan started carefully, holding Thunderbird One a full three hundred metres above the water as he dragged her around in a test circle. By the time he closed the loop it was almost half a kilometre in diameter, and Virgil suppressed a groan. There was no way this was going to work.

Alan's second circuit was tighter, pulling Thunderbird One's nose around to close the loop in little more than a hundred meters. His third held that circle but did so faster, his fourth a little lower and faster still.

Virgil held his breath, breaking his own loose circuit and holding Thunderbird Two on thrusters as he fixed all his concentration on the telescanner screen.

"He's doing it," Scott's whisper was the only sound.

Landing thrusters fired on Thunderbird One, angled not downwards but outwards, fighting the centrifugal force, pulling her orbit tighter until she was looping in a circle little larger than her body length. With each turn, Alan shed altitude, dropping until he was level with the bluffs a few hundred meters away, then below them, before holding the ship a steady three metres above the water's surface.

The ocean was responding now, churned by the howling tornado of Thunderbird One's jet wake. As Virgil watched, the disordered turbulence became rotation, and, ever so slowly, the first few droplets were flung upwards. The whirlwind became snow-white in an instant, the water spray scattering the light. On its edges Virgil could see rainbows, a cloud of them in the rays of the setting sun.

"I ... can't ... hold ... this."

Alan had to be talking through gritted teeth. Behind his voice, Virgil could hear a howling sound, the scream of the tortured wind.

"N...Now, Gordon!" Brain's shouted from base. Virgil reacted to the command before Brains could add his name. The distance to his starting point had been timed exactly to coincide with Gordon's orders. The basic anti-gravity system on Thunderbirds One was meant to assist in tricky landings, and not much more. It was up to him to get there before it failed.

The droplets drawn upwards by air pressure alone were now slammed into a narrow cone, thrust into the centre of the funnel by the extra force the circling antigrav could exert. For a moment the whirlwind seem to collapse in on itself, only the blue-grey streak of Thunderbird One marking its position. And then a blue column shot into the air at the focus of Thunderbird One's orbit, thick and strong, dwarfing the mere aeroplane against its bulk and majesty.

Virgil gasped, realising from the suddenly agitated butterflies in his stomach that he'd never actually expected this plan to work. Beneath him, he felt Thunderbird Two respond to his command as he went to maximum thrust. His own anti-grav devices, designed to make pod drop and retrieval possible, were aligned forward now, an invisible shell over the nose cone of his behemoth.

He heard Alan's hoarse breathing over the radio, and pleaded under his breath for his brother to hold on. Another fifteen seconds and the water column would be as large as even Thunderbird One's influence could support. Alan just had to give him those fifteen seconds and he'd be there in Two, adding all her considerable forward momentum into the equation.

It was ten seconds too long. The noise of Thunderbird Two's engines faded from Virgil's ears as he stared through his forward view-port. He heard nothing but a ringing silence as Thunderbird One jinked suddenly right, her port wing dropping until it clipped the water. Fragments of the wing flew off in every direction, but the body of the ship wasn't yet at rest. By instinct alone, Virgil kept the throttle on Thunderbird Two pushed firmly forward as her smaller sister flipped into the air before dropping belly-first onto the surface of the water. And, driven by still-roaring engines, slid under it.

"Alan, Gordon, report!" Scott's voice broke the silence.

"Th..they..." Virgil stammered, relaxing his grip on his thrusters.

"Thunderbird Two! Stay on course!" Scott snapped, and Virgil jerked forward, sending his ship forward faster and harder than he'd ever done. Five seconds ahead of him, the top of the waterspout was still thirty metres above the ground, gravity taking time to re-establish its hold. Scott's voice was urgent. "Alan! Gordon! Answer me!"

"I can drop a line to them."

"Listen, Virgil! It's imperative you stay on target!" Scott's firm voice made it an order, but Virgil could hear the numb terror in his brother's tone. And then Thunderbird Two made contact with the waterspout, and it all became academic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"Virgil!" Scott heard the panic in his own voice, but it was distant and unreal. Thunderbird Two had been flung backwards, its speed checked as its momentum was transferred to the huge swirling mass suspended above the refinery. Scott felt his heart seize in his chest. He'd said this was too dangerous. He'd said they should abort. Alan. Gordon. Now Virgil. He clung to the Mobile Control unit, losing sight of his brother's Thunderbird as it surged through the blue-green water.

The waterspout toppled, collapsing forward over the refinery in a tidal wave that even the inferno on the ground couldn't compete with. Scott felt the administration tower rock with the impact, and ducked behind the Mobile Control unit a moment before the window in front of him shattered and water sprayed the room. Working on autopilot, he pulled the two managers in behind him, all three of them spluttering and gasping in the cool, fresh air that the water dragged behind it.

He stood, shakily, his eyes scanning the MCU for damage. The scanner grid was down, its transmissions damped by the water, and with wiring connections broken throughout the control tower. For the moment, he was limited to what he could see and understand. Distantly, he was aware that it was raining, a hard torrential rain pelting at the windows and extinguishing even the remnants of the fires that had licked the edges of the building.

The refinery director had held his radio unit in a death grip. Now he raised it to his mouth, checking on the three rescue teams that had drawn back to the floor below, and the ten people they'd pulled from the south-wing coffee room and stairwell. The condition of the remaining men in the basement was anyone's guess. The site's own rescue teams had been forced to retreat from the flames before reaching them. Perhaps – after all this – they'd been safest of all, with the cool earth between them and the fire, and the solid walls of the basement to protect them from the artificial tsunami.

Radio, Scott thought vaguely. There were voices coming from the mobile control unit, the high-pitched calls for information a long stretch from normal International Rescue communications. He ought to do something about that. Right.

"This..." He coughed, trying to clear the taste of salt water from his throat. "This is Mobile Control."

"Scott!"

"Virgil?" Scott shook himself, daring to think again, not daring to think too hard. He grabbed the portable microphone from the MCU and ran to the nearest seaward window, knocking the craze of shattered glass out of the frame and staring across the damp, burnt-out ruins. He'd spent years teasing his brother about his fat ugly duckling of a plane. Washed clean of the smoke and filth, glinting in the sunlight as runnels of water drained off her curved back, Thunderbird Two had never looked more beautiful.

"Scott, are you all right?" John's demand was strident. It echoed off the metal walls of Thunderbird Five, adding to the distortion on the radio channel, and Scott could almost taste his brother's frustration. "What's the condition in the danger zone?"

"Uh...fires are out." Scott tore his eyes off Virgil's Thunderbird, glancing back towards the refinery's director for confirmation as he spoke. "All but the two trapped men are safely accounted for." He swallowed hard, staring out to sea. Thunderbird Two was hovering, turning from side to side as if the change in perspective could help its scanners. "I think the refinery's own emergency staff can take it from here."

"Wait!" The resource manager was staggering to his feet, his eyes confused. "We still have two people trapped! I thought International Rescue ..."

Still numb, still watching his own emotions from a distance, Scott was surprised at the fury in his own voice. "We help when no-one else can!" he snapped. The man took a step backwards from the expression on his face. "With the fires out, your own people can reach the trapped men."

His arm shot out, not to strike the quivering manager despite the way he shied back, but to point through the window at the somehow-huddled bulk of Thunderbird Two. At the water below it, littered with debris from Thunderbird One's shattered wing. "We don't abandon our own either. Those are my brothers out there!"

Dropping his arm and turning away sharply. He raised the microphone to his lips.

"Virgil, can you get a line down to Thunderbird One? Drag it ashore?"

"The water's too deep, Scott!" Virgil's voice held a note in it that Scott had never heard before, not even when his beloved Two had been shot out from under him. He'd heard Virgil in a panic, had heard him angry, in pain and desperate. He'd never heard Virgil so utterly without hope. "I can't even locate them!"

"Virge..."

"They've been under for almost ten minutes! And Thunderbird One isn't even close to water-tight. I should have turned around as soon as they crashed - caught them before they sank too far!"

Scott opened his mouth and closed it again, hearing the bitter anger in his usually even-tempered brother's voice. The world greyed out around him as the blood rushed from his face, and he realised that the manager he'd bawled out just moments before was now pushing him into a chair, telling him to sit down. He'd made that call, and it had felt like the right one at the time. Now nothing could feel more wrong.

If he hadn't let himself get trapped by the fire… If he had remembered basic protocols… You didn't let yourself become another victim. How many times had that been drummed into them all? Scott couldn't feel anything but an icy cold inside. Virgil was blaming him, and he was right to.

"Virgil," John's voice was very soft. "If you hadn't kept going thirty-three people on the ground would be dead by now, Scott amongst them. Alan said it himself. There were too many people in danger to abort. Now we need to talk about how to get down to Gordon and Alan. Just now, I want you to turn around and pick up Scott, okay? He's not sounding much like himself at the moment."

Scott opened his mouth to protest and stopped, startled when his radio flicked onto a private channel to Thunderbird Five. "Don't push it, Scott," John warned abruptly. "Dad wants you to check on Virgil too."

There was a strangled sob over the radio as it switched back to the open channel. Virgil turned Thunderbird Two around, heading painfully slowly back to the coastline, and the now flame-free landing pad closest to the control tower. When he spoke, it was in a flat monotone.

"They're drowning down there, and there's nothing we can do."

* * *

The sound of lapping water woke Gordon Tracy, as it had many times before. The waves caressing the rocks below his window had been his wake-up call for so many years that he was more attuned to the tide than he was to the dawn. This was the sound that echoed in his mind when he was forced to run errands inland for Tracy Industries or, worse still, up to the space station for International Rescue. This was the ripple of noise that should surround him, not the scream of tortured air that he'd come to associated with Thunderbird One.

Thunderbird One!

Gordon sat bolt upright and fell back immediately, groaning as his head and body agreed that horizontal was definitely their preferred position. He forced his eyes to stay open, frowning in confusion at the grey ceiling. At least he assumed it was a ceiling. On Thunderbird One, vertical had always been more or less an arbitrary direction. Slowly, and far more carefully, he raised himself on one elbow, his other hand pulling him up against the chair he'd been thrown from.

"Alan?"

The echoes of the call were louder than they should have been, and not just because of his aching head. He'd never been aboard Thunderbird One when her engines were dead and even her electronics were silent. He had never realised how sound bounced around the curved metal walls. The way the sound of trickling water was doing now.

Shaking his head to clear it, Gordon pushed up to a seated position, only now realising that his hands were splashing through the rising tide, and the back of his uniform was sodden. He'd been lying in a wall-to-wall puddle at least an inch deep and rising rapidly. Okay then, he told himself grimly, maybe not such a happy sound after all.

"Alan!"

Seeing out of the passenger cabin and into the cockpit would require standing, and Gordon wasn't quite sure he could manage that yet. Or that he could cope with what he'd see if he did. He crawled instead, getting a hand on the door handle, and wrenching it towards him with more force than was strictly necessary. He needn't have bothered. The water pressure drove the door inwards, the heavy metal hatch slamming into Gordon's wrist, and the ice-cold wave behind it splashing across Gordon's face. He rose, spluttering, finding himself more stable on his feet than he expected as he reached for one of the pierced girders that held Thunderbird One's skin taut and stepped down into the cockpit. He winced. This wasn't good. The small cabin was at least waist deep in water.

Which promptly became irrelevant. Alan was slumped forward, held in the pilot's chair by the straps across his waist and chest. The cold blue lake lapped around the unconscious man's ankles, rising higher with each passing minute. Gordon splashed through it, wading chest-deep now as he tried to reach the elevated control chair, almost falling forward as his left foot connected with something under the water line. He steadied himself with one hand on the back of Alan's chair, his other was already reaching hesitantly for his brother's limp shoulder.

"Alan?"

The groan startled him. He stepped backwards, the underwater debris catching him now on the back of his ankles. He was wheeling his arms in a desperate, and ultimately futile, attempt to stay upright, when Alan lifted his head from his chest and those bright blue eyes opened. Alan's face creased in an expression of sleepy bemusement as Gordon fell with a splash.

"Not today, okay Gordon?" he complained, raising one hand to rub his eyes. "Just let me get some rest."

"Uh, uh, Alan." Gordon pulled himself back up the chair, finding his feet again. Alan was slumping again, his eyes drifting closed. "Look at me." He splashed a handful of water into his brother's face, making Alan splutter with indignation, but at least the younger man was awake. Gordon peered quickly into his eyes. "Just look at me, okay, Alan? I think you had a bit of a bang to the head."

He leaned forward, stepping up onto the footrest and bracing himself to catch his brother as he released the strapping and Alan fell forward. Moving the injured man might not be the best idea, but the water was almost chest high for the pilot's chair now, and he'd be swimming if he'd stayed on the cabin floor. There wasn't a whole lot of choice.

Awkwardly, Gordon got his brother's arm around his shoulder, thankful that Alan was supporting even a little of his own weight. Gordon didn't have the weight advantage over the family's baby that some of their brothers did.

"I've got to get you out of here." He looked around, trying to orient himself in the fallen Thunderbird One, trying to figure out just why water was flooding into the rocket plane in the first place. "But how?"

* * *

The breathing gear in Thunderbird One wasn't hard to find. After all, Gordon was responsible for checking its condition and safety, albeit usually when the vehicle was in a rather more upright and a much less damp condition. What was more worrying was that Scott only carried a full-scale deep diving kit for one. The handful of light-weight masks he kept in reserve for rescuees might help a bit, but weren't going to hack it at any kind of depth. The shallow snorkelling that all the boys enjoyed in the Island's clear water was one thing. The pressure, cold and darkness of the deeps was quite another.

Peering through the plexiglass window of Thunderbird One's rear hatch, the gloomy haze didn't inspire much confidence. But if the water outside the vehicle looked ominous, the water inside was more threatening still. They'd had to climb up to this point, the deck angle not exactly steep but certainly noticeable as they moved from the buried nose of the ship towards the rear. Behind them, the cockpit was already underwater and even here, the flooding lapped chest-high on both men, rising fast.

He tried to work out their chances of surviving a swim to the surface from this kind of depth, and then the chances of rescue coming in time. There was no choice. Even a slim hope was better than none.

"Alan!" Gordon fought down the urge to snap the name. Wrestling his semi-coherent brother into the diving suit had been more than a little trying for them both. Instead he made his voice insistent but calm, trying to break past the vacant stare Alan had adopted. "Alan, I want you to listen to me. We're in trouble, okay? Thunderbird One is flooding and we can't stop it. Even if we could find an air pocket, the guys don't have Four here so they couldn't reach us in time. We'll just be trapped."

Alan giggled, his arms splashing in the water to his side. He blinked sleepily, his energy seeming to ebb away. "Don't want to play in the pool, Gordo," he muttered, and his voice was worryingly slurred. "It's too cold today."

Gordon smiled despite his concern. Alan hadn't used that excuse to get out of a water fight since their Dad had moved them all to the Island. His smile faded into a shudder and he fixed his own flimsy mask in place before reaching over very carefully to seal the more robust helmet across Alan's face, tucking his blond hair out of the way. The younger man's eyes widened, the first stages of panic floating through his fogged brain. Gently, Gordon slapped away his flailing hands, taking a firm grip on the utility straps threaded across the front of Alan's suit. "This isn't going to be much fun for either of us," he predicted. "Alan!" Again, he waited until he had his brother's attention. "Look, Alan, if something happens to me – if I let go of you for any reason – I want you to swim upwards, okay? Up towards the light. Alan! This is important."

"Up towards the light." Alan nodded, his expression clearing slightly in response to Gordon's urgency. His mouth twisted downward. "I don't feel so good, Gordon."

Gordon sighed in sympathy and concern. "Yeah, Alan. I know." He forced a bright smile onto his face, hoping it reached his eyes even if Alan couldn't see past his breathing mask. "Deep breath, Alan!" he said as he hit the hatch control.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"I don't believe it! There has to be something!"

Scott wanted to take the refinery manager and shake him hard. He could feel the man's sympathy, and it was like a physical pain in his stomach.

"I'm sorry. Our maintenance sub was the reserve rescue vehicle in this area, and it's gone." The man waved a hand ineffectually at the devastation that surrounded the administration building, trying to convey the scale of this disaster.

Scott couldn't feel for the refinery, couldn't even spare the emotions to react as contact was established with the two victims in the basement. This rescue was over. He had another to worry about. He'd packed the Mobile Control unit back onto its hover-sled with his hands working on autopilot. Already he could hear the blast of Thunderbird Two's retro rockets cushioning her landing not far from the building. He needed to be out there, checking on Virgil, reassuring himself that his brother's voice hadn't been an illusion.

His eyes caught on the glass-free windowpane looking out towards the place where Thunderbird One had crashed. He needed to be out there too, doing something other than sitting back as his youngest brothers died.

He raised his wrist communicator to his lips as the sound of Virgil's engines died away. He closed his eyes, aching all over as every muscle strained for action. He didn't want to give this report. "Father …"

"The coastguard can't help. I'm there ahead of you, Scott." Jeff Tracy's voice was grim. He cleared his throat, hoarsely. "I'll keep making calls, Scott. We'll find someone who can get to them, but we might have to do this ourselves. I want you and your brother to come back for Thunderbird Four."

Scott went pale. He knew what that would mean, and he put all of his horror into his voice. "But, Dad, the time …!"

Now, for the first time, there was a catch in Jeff's voice. He sounded hoarse, and Scott was aghast to realise that his father was choking back tears.

"I know, Scott!"

"Scott," John's voice was gentle, cutting across them both, but it was also very worried. "I think you ought to get across to Thunderbird Two as soon as possible."

"Why?" Scott threw the word out angrily. If they were going to make the trip back to the Island, a minute or two here or there wasn't going to make any difference. "So Virgil can tell you I'm fine?"

"No," John snapped back tiredly. "So you can tell me he is! Virgil's not answering his radio!"

* * *

Thunderbird One's hatches had never been designed to open under water. Gordon barely had time to drag Alan back out of the way before the door's hinges squealed and the metal burst inwards. Water flowed inwards in a torrent, driving the last half-metre of free air out through the cracks in Thunderbird One's hull. Forcing himself to breathe regularly, holding Alan in a vice-like grip against the current, he cursed his inattention. To be caught out by the pressure differential once was misfortune, and his wrist still throbbed with pain to prove it. To forget to move aside twice was sheer incompetence.

He shook his pounding head, tapping his own mask to check that it was seated firmly against his face, before pressing his head against Alan's helmet. His baby brother's blue eyes were wide and terrified, clearly not understanding the situation as the water closed over his head. Gordon managed another smile, for Alan's sake. There would be time enough to be angry with himself when he'd gotten them both out of this mess.

Gesturing downward, he put both hands on Alan's shoulder's, forcing his head down. Watching carefully to be sure that the fabric of his brother's diving suit didn't snag on the twisted remains of the hatch, he pushed Alan out through the opening, twisting awkwardly so he could watch both the younger man and his own legs as he eased past the ruined door.

His breath caught in his throat. He'd thought the water inside Thunderbird One had been cold. Outside, immersed with no more protection than his uniform and a breathing mask, he knew he'd been wrong. He hadn't realised how the heat still radiating from the damaged vehicle had warmed it. The bitter cold threatened to rob him of what little breath and concentration he had. He forced the shudders down, trying to focus. Lost in the sediment kicked up by Thunderbird One's rough landing, he tried and failed to get his bearings. Desperately, he closed his eyes, trying to get a feel for the water-muted effects of gravity. He couldn't last long in this kind of temperature, and even on a good day, Alan didn't have nearly his level of diving experience.

On the plus side, the cold water seemed to be rousing his younger brother. Alan must be feeling it even through the thick fabric of the diving suit. He reached out, shaking Gordon until he opened his eyes. His own blue eyes wide, he gestured violently in a direction that might possibly be up. Or might just help fill the time before their oxygen ran out and hypothermia overtook them.

Gordon shrugged, adjusting his grip on his brother so that the confident strokes of his long legs could add to the power behind Alan's occasional weak kicks. The mud-filled water didn't clear. Gordon had a sneaking suspicion that they were deep enough that even without the suspended sediment, the water would have been dark. He had felt the tension in his nose and throat when he'd woken up. But … but was that a light up ahead? Could Alan have been right about their direction?

Gordon was tiring now, his legs feeling heavy, his arms numb. Alan was the only thing that kept him going. He had to get Alan to the surface. Even if they were deep, the decompression sickness had to be better than the alternative.

He cried out when he felt Alan being pulled away from him, instinctively striking out when he felt his fingers being prized open from around his brother's harness. A hand closed around his fist, and the light was stronger now, almost blinding, casting his attacker into silhouette. Blinking away tears, Gordon struggled to focus, recognising the strangely shaped head in front of him as a diving mask for the first time, realising that he recognised the style. That the yellow and blue shape ahead of him was familiar. That he could relax.

He was unconscious before he finished the thought.

* * *

Wreckage crunched under Thunderbird Two as she settled to the ground. There would be scratches in the paintwork, even dents, but for once in his life, Virgil couldn't care less.

The shattered windows and slumped outline of the main administration building looked like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie. Its exterior was darkened by ash, turned by the collapsing waterspout into a thick, black mud. It lurked in the twilight gloom, a broken shell.

Like Virgil.

He lowered his face into his hands, shaking but unable to release the tears stinging the back of his eyes. He didn't dare let go, not now. John had said Scott needed him. Right here, right now, they only had each other.

"Virge?"

The hand on his shoulder took him by surprise, and he started, forcing Scott to take a step backwards. His eldest brother looked haggard, his skin and clothing streaked with dark mud, his skin very pale around his dark hair and deep blue eyes. Virgil blinked at him, wondering how much time he'd lost. Thunderbird Two's radio was off, despite the lights indicating that both Thunderbird Five and base had been trying to get in touch. He looked up at his brother, an apology in his eyes. Scott must have made the trek across the ruins of the refinery alone, probably worrying about him the whole way.

"Virgil, you okay?"

Virgil managed a half-hearted smile for the folly of the question. "Sure, Scott."

Scott's answering smile was equally wan. He raised his wrist to his lips. "Aboard Thunderbird. Virgil's fine. Probably just a communications blip from the soaking Two got."

Virgil bit his lip to hold back the words that threatened to choke him. "Thanks."

Scott slipped into the chair behind and to his left. Virgil felt the eyes on his back as he checked the proximity sensors and started Thunderbird Two's pre-flight sequence. The expression on Scott's face as he turned back to face him said more than a thousand words could.

"I thought I'd lost you, Virge. I thought I'd lost you too." Scott's voice broke on the last word, and he shook his head, breaking the eye contact and turning to the instrument panel beside him. "Right! Father wants us to mark the position where Thunderbird One went down and then return to base for Thunderbird Four."

"That's a three and a half hour round trip, Scott!"

"Still faster than anyone else can manage. Dad's alerted the local authorities, but the coastguard here doesn't have any rescue subs within five hour's travel. They suggested we use the refinery's pipeline maintenance craft."

"Can we?" Virgil bit back his hopeful response at the look on Scott's face.

"Sure! If we can find it amongst all the other puddles of plastic and metal." He raised a hand, gesturing towards the shapeless ruins that had been at the heart of the inferno. "I'm told it was over that-a-way."

"Scott, even if Thunderbird One hasn't flooded… even then … they'd be out of air in under an hour. By the time we get back …"

Scott's voice was very quiet. "I know, Virgil. But we have to try"

The onboard computer chimed, signalling its readiness, and Virgil engaged the thrusters. His heart felt heavy in his chest, almost as if he were leaving it behind on the ground. His hands shook. When he closed his eyes, it wasn't Scott sitting behind him, it was Alan and Gordon, the pair of them with their heads together plotting some mischief as they relaxed after another successful mission. He smiled indulgently, not bothering to try and overhear. He'd find out what they were up to sooner or later, he was sure.

"Virgil!" Scott's voice roused him and his fists clenched on the controls. He'd taken Thunderbird Two up almost to ten thousand metres on landing thrusters alone. Hurriedly, he cut the main engines in, descending in a smooth curve.

"Sorry, Scott."

"Virgil, I gotta ask." Scott's voice was firm, the voice of Virgil's older brother and superior wrapped into one. "You fit to fly?"

Virgil gave a bark of something that wasn't quite laughter. "Are you? If I think I'm letting you near the controls in your state, you've got another thing coming." He rubbed his eyes, surprised to feel the wetness on his cheeks, dashing it away angrily. Scott wasn't giving up. His Father wasn't. He could hold on for a little longer. "Get the beacon buoy ready, Scott. I don't want to have to loop around again."

His brother gave him a hard look, but Scott's own hand was shaking as he prepped the marker. Virgil shuddered. Scott always held it together, at least until everything was over. He'd found his brother curled up beside the pool before, or collapsed in his bedroom, shaking with the burden of command. He'd never once seen Scott surrender to his fears during a mission.

"Now, Scott," he ordered gently as they passed over the point where he'd last seen his little brothers alive. Where he had to believe they were still waiting, confident that their family would save them.

"Buoy away" Scott reported. Virgil nodded, bringing up Thunderbird Two's rear video feed and watching as the bright yellow sphere bobbed to the surface. Its pinging signal echoed through the loudspeakers and around the cabin. A normal beacon worked on one frequency. The IR special was bombarding the air-waves. It would warn away local boats, and draw in the emergency services, if and when they ever arrived. Hell, even the military would hear this one.

Wait! The military!

"Scott! Has Dad tried W.A.S.P.? Even if no one else has a sub in the area, maybe they could …"

Scott held up a hand. He looked tired, his skin almost translucent under the artificial cockpit lights. "Last I heard, he was trying to get in touch with them. Virge, we're doing everything we can!"

Virgil nodded, turning Thunderbird Two's nose towards base and piling on the thrust. Close on four hours before they could be back here. By then there would be no question. Thunderbird Four's mission would be recovery, not rescue.

No. He shook his head, ignoring the pressure of Scott's eyes on the back of his head. He couldn't think that.

"They could still be alive, couldn't they? There have to be air pockets." He waited. "Scott?"

He heard the catch in his brother's breathing. And as the pause lengthened, he heard the miniscule sigh when his brother decided to lie. Scott's voice sounded weird, utterly devoid of genuine emotion.

"Sure, they're probably wrapped up warm and wondering why we're taking so long." Scott's voice dropped into a whisper. "They've got to be all right. They've _got _to be!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

A slender hand was pressing gently against his chest, checking his breathing. For a moment, it was restful, soothing. Then it reminded him that the rest of his body was there and he became aware of the fire streaking through his limbs. He curled into a foetal position, arms around his knees, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he pleaded with his nervous system to give him a break.

"Gordon?" The first hand had fallen away when he moved. Now another took hold of his shoulder. He concentrated on the feel of the fingers digging in above his collarbone. This was a bigger hand, rougher, but with an easy strength. "It is Gordon, isn't it? Can you open your eyes?"

He did so, squinting as even his golden-brown irises seemed to offer up a pained complaint. The face in front of him was a blur, but the figure was dressed in a grey uniform that, clouded vision or otherwise, he recognised in a heartbeat.

"W.A.S.P.! You're with W.A.S.P.!"

"Top marks, Gordon." The other man sat back on his heels with an easy grin. Gordon relaxed a little, letting his knees slip out of his encircling arms, but not even trying to sit up. "Want to try a few other questions?" The man ran a hand through his dark hair, his voice dropping to a whisper Gordon wasn't meant to hear. "And I hope you do better than your pal did."

Questions? Oh, a concussion check. Right, he knew the procedure. But what pal?

Gordon jerked upright, fear overriding the pain he felt. "Alan!"

"Hey, Gordon."

The sleepy voice came from his left, and his eyes followed the sound so fast his neck ached from the whiplash. The blue blur there was topped with a very familiar mop of golden-blond hair. He squinted, forcing his eyes to focus. Alan was propped up against the back wall of the room, his head leaning back against it. To one side, a slender figure supported him. Despite himself, Gordon spared the grey-haired girl a look. Trust Alan to find the prettiest woman around in even the worst situation. As Gordon watched, she shook his shoulder as hard as she could.

Alan's half-closed eyes snapped open, and he gave a tired moan. "She won't let me sleep, Gordo," he said, sounding like a petulant child.

"He's got a goose-egg the size of a basketball on the back of his head," the W.A.S.P. officer at Gordon's side offered the explanation as an apology.

"He's got a serious concussion," Gordon groaned, turning to meet his rescuer with serious eyes. "The g-forces… we both blacked out… and then…"

"Then your plane crashed," a new voice finished for him. The brown-haired man sitting at the controls of what was evidently some kind of submarine half-turned in his seat, adjusting a set of hydrophones that almost covered his ears. "Sure gave us a shock down here when you came past. You were caught in the same waterspout that gave us a rattlin', I guess? The thing blew out of nowhere."

"Ah… yes." Gordon struggled to keep the guilt and confusion out of his voice. "It kinda did."

The officer at his side leant Gordon a hand, pulling him to his feet and helping him close the few steps between him and his Alan. The girl moved aside, letting Gordon kneel in her place, one hand against the wall to steady himself. Alan managed a smile as Gordon brushed a lock of blond hair back from his brother's face. His blue eyes were still confused, but utterly trusting.

"Hold on, Alan," Gordon told him gently. "We'll get you to a hospital soon, okay?"

The pilot and his hydrophone operator exchanged a look that Gordon couldn't spare the energy to interpret. The pilot squatted down, his dark eyebrows almost touching as his brow furrowed.

"Hey, you're looking a bit out of it there yourself, Gordon. Look we've given you something for the pressure sickness. You should be feeling better by now. But we need to know how bad it is and if there's anything else wrong. If you're who I think you are, then I'm pretty sure you know the drill. What's your name?"

"Gordon Tracy, this is my brother Alan."

"The same Gordon Tracy who was in W.A.S.P. until the accident a few years back?" the man asked, his eyes curious. Gordon swallowed hard as he nodded. He'd worked hard to put that incident behind him. The last thing he needed to do was think about it right now. The pilot gave his arm an awkward, but sympathetic, pat. "You looked like a born diver out there. Day of the week?"

"Saturday evening," Gordon frowned. "I think. It might be Sunday by now here. We don't exactly keep office hours."

"Still Saturday evening in Marineville," the sub pilot agreed cheerfully. "Close enough." He leaned forward intently. "And when you're talking about office hours, who are 'we'?"

Gordon looked around him at the W.A.S.P. uniforms, at the W.A.S.P. emblem on the cabin wall. By contrast, he and Alan were a bedraggled mess, their uniforms sodden with cold water, their sashes and insignia lost somewhere along the way. They needed the help, and if he couldn't trust his former colleagues, whom could he trust?

"International Rescue."

"Yes!" the hydrophone operator crowed, slapping the control panel with one hand. "That's another drink you owe me, Troy. I told you that had to be a Thunderbird."

The pilot – Troy – raised a hand in surrender, his expression turning a little disgruntled as he stood and moved towards the front of the cabin, skirting a lowered pit in its centre. "Well it's not as if anyone's ever seen a photograph of the them, Phones. I still say it could just as easily have been an experimental rocket ship."

"Thunderbird One kind of is," Gordon offered. "Was." His eyes widened. "Scott's going to kill us."

Alan whimpered, and Gordon kicked himself. "Not really, Alan. You know what he's like." He rolled his eyes, struggling for a little humour. "He'll probably have us scrubbing the launch tubes for a month."

"So that was Thunderbird One?" Troy sat down in the seat beside 'Phones', running his eyes over the pilots' status readouts. There was a deliberate casualness to his voice when he continued. "Will the other Thunderbirds come for you?"

Gordon went pale. He'd joked about Scott being angry, and Alan was worrying him more than he knew how to say, but he hadn't really thought about his family beyond that. "Oh Lord. They'll think we're dead. Thunderbird One wasn't waterproof. And Scott – the fires! Did it even work?"

"Gordon! Gordon, calm down."

Gordon didn't see Troy jumping out of his seat and crossing the room. He was jerked back to reality by a light slap across his face. He grabbed the other man's wrist.

"Our wrist communicators wont work at this kind of depth. You've got to call International Rescue, tell them you've got us and ask about Scott!"

The pilot pulled back, a little startled by the speed and intensity of Gordon's reactions. He shook his head sadly. "Gordon, I'd like nothing better, but we can't."

Gordon stared. "Why not? This is Stingray, isn't it?" He saw the other man's surprise. "I might not have moved in the same heady circles as you at W.A.S.P., Captain Tempest, but my accident wasn't the only thing that made headlines. I was reading about Stingray before I even joined up." Slowly he pushed himself to his seat. The aching in his bones and muscles was subsiding now; whatever Troy had given him for the decompression sickness seemed to be working.

Tempest stepped back, facing the challenge in Gordon's expression. "Stingray took a battering, Gordon. Our radio's out, and that's not all."

"But if we just surface…?" Gordon followed Tempest back across the room, a little surprised that his balance had returned and his legs appeared to be following instructions.

"Will the other member of International Rescue come for you?"

Gordon bit back his frustration. "They can't. They don't have Thunderbird Four with them, and it's too deep down here for free diving."

Troy raised an eyebrow, reminding Gordon of the inadequate equipment he'd tried to use in their escape from Thunderbird One. He flushed, embarrassed. He'd grown up with a famous father, and had met presidents and celebrities so often their faces blurred, but Tempest had been a hero to him throughout his W.A.S.P. years. He looked towards the rear of the cabin and down at Alan's cherubic features, alarmed to see his brother's eyes closed. Well, even heroes had to answer for their actions when Alan needed help. For his family's sake he would stand up to anyone.

He raised his chin, defiantly. "I didn't have a lot of choice."

"We weren't reading any air pockets in the ship when we left, Troy," Phones pointed out. "If they hadn't a'swum for it, they'd of been gonners."

"We would have been anyway if you hadn't been there," Gordon said seriously. "We're under way? I take it there's some reason we can't surface?"

"At least three of our main ballast tanks are ruptured," Tempest snapped. "We couldn't surface if we tried."

"We were going to head back to Marineville," Phones volunteered. "If we can make it up to twenty meters deep, we can dock underwater there. S'long as they spot us coming and open the doors."

"Were?"

"Slight problem." Troy swung back into his chair, nodding to Phones as he took back control. "Marineville is over sixteen hours away at our top speed." He glanced over his shoulder towards where his third crewmember was shaking their blond guest with increasing urgency in the effort to rouse him. "And I'm not sure your brother can wait that long."

* * *

"Base from Thunderbird Two, approaching Island."

Virgil's voice startled Scott from a light doze. He straightened quickly in his chair, angry with himself for sleeping. He felt guilty enough for letting Virgil fly the Thunderbird at all. Letting his tired and shocked brother do it without a co-pilot, they were lucky not to have flown straight past base, or landed in the water shortward of it.

The cold, deep water.

Realisation hit, and he bit down hard on his cheek in the effort of stifling his cry. If they were approaching Tracy Island, two hours must have past. He'd been asleep as his brothers died.

His gasping breaths attracted Virgil's attention, and he heard the pilot turn in his seat. Scott forced the pain down deep inside. He shook himself, looking up at his brother. Virgil's rich brown hair was dull and coarse with dried perspiration. When he peered back at Scott the chestnut eyes were dry, but bloodshot. Behind him, on the console, John's face was visible over the link to Thunderbird Five. Their usually-imperturbable brother had been crying, his blue eyes as pink and sunken as Virgil's. Despite that he managed a weak smile for Scott.

"Hey, sleepy head."

"Any news?" Scott hated himself for asking, for causing the flash of grief that crossed both their faces. He even knew the answer. No one would have let him sleep if there had been word on his baby brothers.

"Nothing yet, Scott," John told him softly. "I was just keeping Virgil company for a bit."

"Thunderbird Two from Base. Pod Four is locked and rolled out. Ready for pick-up."

"Dad!" Scott leaned forward, reaching past Virgil to flick the microphone onto the right channel. "Anything from W.A.S.P.? Can they help?"

Jeff Tracy hesitated. "One moment, Scott. Virgil, vertical descent. Drop Pod Three on the landing strip and we can take it from there."

Scott traded startled looks with his brother. John's face had faded from the monitor to be replaced by their father's. He was granite-faced, nothing but the shadows under his eyes betraying his emotion, but it wasn't like Jeff Tracy to give his sons instructions they didn't need.

"F.A.B., Father," Virgil answered quietly, his hands already on the thruster controls. Scott sat back in his chair, his stomach roiling with sudden nerves. There was something wrong about Jeff's demeanour. Scott had seen this before, just once or twice, and it was a bad sign when their father was hiding something from them.

"Father? About W.A.S.P…?"

Jeff sighed, looking away from the camera and gazing out of his office window. "W.A.S.P. had a submarine in the area."

"That's great! Gordon and Alan – maybe they can …"

"Scott, I spoke to Commander Shore at Marineville. They had a burst of transmission from the one of their submerged vehicles saying they'd seen the refinery fire and were going to try to shut the offshore safety valves on the sea-floor pipeline."

Scott knew that what little colour he had left was draining from his face. He remembered the deep water just below the cliff-top refinery. The depth they'd needed to get the whirlpool going. He heard Thunderbird Two's landing thrusters hiccup as Virgil realised the implication.

"Dad, have they heard from the sub since we tried the waterspout trick?" Virgil asked, his voice hoarse.

"Did we…?" Scott's horrified question trailed off wordlessly.

Their father's eyes returned to the screen. "There were more than thirty people trapped in that refinery."

"And I'm getting sick of hearing about it!" Virgil's usually tranquil temper snapped. There was a shudder through the frame of the ship, as Thunderbird Two touched down, and Virgil's movements were almost violent as he stabbed the release switch and powered up the thrusters again to lift the ship clear of the jettisoned pod. "We're meant to save lives, not put more in danger!"

Scott stood, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. He watched as Virgil hovered the ship a dozen metres to one side, lining up carefully on their new cargo before starting to descend again.

"Dad, how many people were on that boat?"

"Scott, I think you should land once you have Pod Four in place. I want Brains to go with you."

"He'd better run then," Virgil grated. "We're going back as soon as I've run the pod diagnostics."

"Dad," Scott met his father's eyes through the viewscreen, and saw him flinch. "How many?"

"Three. I'm sorry, son. Thunderbird One isn't the only vehicle down in that stretch of ocean. Stingray is missing."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"There has to be something more we can do."

Gordon felt his eyes fill with tears. He cushioned Alan's head in his lap, trying for the tenth time to rouse his brother. It had been two hours since Alan had lost consciousness and Gordon had never felt so helpless as he helped Marina wrap the blanket around him more tightly.

Tempest exchanged a look with his navigator.

"We're making top speed, Gordon," Phones said placatingly.

"For all the good it's going to do!" Gordon closed his eyes, knowing his anger was misplaced.

He'd agreed to this course, even if he'd had little choice in the matter. With Alan in this state Marineville wasn't an option, and his brothers ... even if his brothers came, he couldn't be sure how long it would take them to reach the stricken sub. By contrast, even Troy's mad suggestion had sounded like a good idea.

"I hope the maps of this shelf are accurate."

Troy smiled, glad that this was something he really was sure about. "Gordon, how many months did you spend on mapping duty as a trainee? Believe me, when W.A.S.P. maps something, they make sure it stays mapped."

Phones lifted one hand from his controls, tapping the huge headset he wore and pointing at the sonar screen in front of him. "And we're not exactly flying blind here either. I'll know when we can turn inland."

"And you're sure Stingray can follow the ocean floor upwards?"

The two men in front of him exchanged a worried look that was somewhat less than encouraging. Then Troy smiled a bold, confident smile that made him look a lot like Scott. It was a reassuring image. "Well, we're about to find out."

* * *

_Alan couldn't remember a time before he lived on the Island. _

_Virgil would never forget the wide-eyed wonder on his little brother's face the day they moved there. He'd pulled them all forward, even as he clung tightly to Scott's hand, wanting to explore, but not prepared to abandon the safety of his brother's grip. The child had led the way, and where before they'd seen an alien and hostile world – far from the one they were leaving behind – they saw instead their brother's playground. A world of new and exciting opportunities._

_They'd slept that night in a comfortable pile in the living room, despite their father's insistence that they each had a room to go to. Alan had been in the middle, his small head resting on Virgil's chest, the warmth and soft breathing lulling his brother to sleep._

_Gordon had woken them that night, scared by the island noises, crying about that and so much more. His older brothers had moved closer, trying to reassure him with their presence but at a loss for words to say. It was Alan who crawled into his brother's arms, rocking backwards and forwards with him._

"_Don't cry, Gordon. Scott and John and Virgil are here, and they'll look after us. Daddy's just in his room. They'll keep us safe."_

_Alan's sweet-voiced lullaby soothed all his brothers to sleep_

"V..Virgil?"

"Virgil! Snap out of it!" That was Scott's voice, angry and something more … desperate.

"Scott?" Virgil blinked, and the room snapped into focus around him. Panoramic windows, high backed chair with his control panel in front of him. Scott - a pale shadow of his normal self - and Brains in front of him, both watching him with anxious expressions.

He swallowed back the memories and swallowed down the tears, stabbing half-heartedly at Thunderbird Two's controls. They were on autopilot, although he didn't remember setting it. Best leave it, he thought, all things considered. Blinking, he looked back at his two passengers.

"Something up?"

"Virgil, don't _do_ this to me."

Scott's voice was trembling and it felt so, so wrong just having him there. Virgil felt a burst of sympathy so profound he knew it showed on his face. Scott should be at the controls of Thunderbird One. He should be in control, confident and determined. He didn't belong here as a passenger, helpless. It couldn't be helping him cope with … with ….

Blinking away tears, Virgil turned his head away. "Still twenty minutes from … where it happened."

He heard Scott and Brains exchanged quiet, concerned words, and kicked himself. They shouldn't have to worry about him on top of everything else. He was being selfish. He ought to be taking better care of his brother. He hadn't seen Scott this pale since they'd heard about Gordon's hydrofoil acci,accide….

He tried to hide the tears at first, trying not to let it show that his shoulders were heaving and his breath coming in shallow, painful gasps. He didn't let the sobs break through aloud until he felt his brother's arms around him, holding him so tightly it was painful, and they were both sliding out of the chair, sinking to the ground in a single, sobbing tangle of limbs.

* * *

Scott clung to Virgil, feeling his own tears coming hot and fast. He didn't know how Virgil had held on for so long or how he'd held it together himself. Brains had been muttering about post-traumatic symptoms, and God knows they'd been through enough today to cause it, but Scott knew this was something simpler, purer. They were crying for the brothers they would never see again. For the opportunities they'd missed. For everything they'd lost.

The tears he cried were genuine, welling up from so deep inside that he could feel them shake every part of him, but even holding his brother close to him, he felt alone. Each tear seemed to leach the heat from him, leaving an icy core that not even Virgil could touch. He'd see this through, get his brother home, before he tried looking too closely at the coldness locked inside him. He'd stand before his father and give his report and he wouldn't try to hide. He'd admit to each and every decision that had gotten Alan and Gordon killed. And he wouldn't ask forgiveness as he left. If he couldn't forgive himself, how could he expect his father to ever stand the sight of him again?

Virgil was shaking, the heaving sobs subsiding but leaving him weak and tired in their wake. His colour looked better than it had for a while. He'd needed this, Scott knew. They had both needed to let some of the tension out. It wouldn't be enough. Couldn't ever be enough. But it might get them by for now.

"Um, ah, Scott?" Brains's face was streaked with his own tears as Scott looked up at him. The scientist had one hand against the control panel as if to steady himself, but he didn't try to join the huddle on the floor. Scott wanted to comfort the other man, but he could only feel the cold. Brains didn't need to share that. His stutter was more pronounced than usual, and he didn't meet their eyes when he spoke. "Scott, I'm s..sorry. But we're a..at the, ah, incident coordinates. Th..The local coastguard h..h..have located a blip on the s..sonar, half-buried so they c..c..can't measure its, ah, shape. Th..they say it's full of water. I..it could be St..st..stingray, I guess."

Scott lifted his brother gently, leaning Virgil against his chair, and stood. Virgil looked up at him with a pale face. "Scott, no."

"One of us has to do it, Virgil," Scott's voice was calm, his eyes focused and alert. "One of us has to take Thunderbird Four down there."

* * *

"Rock outcrop ahead, steer zero four degrees port."

Phones had one hand pressed to his headset and his eyes glued on the chart spread in front of him. They scanned it constantly, and there was a steady frown on his face as he concentrated on matching the hydrophone echoes with the hazards laid out on paper before him.

"Zero four degrees port."

Tempest gritted his teeth as he made the careful adjustment to his steering column. It was clear he trusted his hydrophone operator implicitly, but none of them were under any illusion about how dangerous this had become.

For his position against the cabin's back wall, Gordon watched grimly. His hands itched. He wanted to feel the comforting sensation of a submarine's controls under them, but he knew it was Thunderbird Four's control lever he was imagining against his palm, not Stingray's. He might be a skilled aquanaut, but this was Troy Tempest's ship, and no money in the world would compel him to change places with the man just now.

The plan had started so smoothly. At first Stingray had been happy to maintain its distance from the muddy bottom as Troy had swung them out from the shoreline and up the gently rising contours of the seabed. With its floatation tanks flooded, the submarine's buoyancy was essentially neutral and all it had taken was the addition of manoeuvring thrusters to its main engines to give it a very slight vertical lift. It was as they had climbed onto this raised sediment, washed out by a huge river estuary, that their plan had started to come apart. The gentle incline of the sea floor over five hundred kilometres or more had accounted for half of their original depth. But as the pressure above them halved, so their displacement had become more and more unbalanced. The water in the tanks was now heavier than the volume of water the ship displaced. It would be foolishly over-optimistic of them to expect gravity not to notice.

Since they'd stopped being able to sail above the rocks and started having to steer around them, their speed had dropped. Admittedly, they were probably still going at close to Thunderbird Four's top speed, but it was a fraction of what Stingray was capable of, and Gordon fretted over every lost second.

A touch on his arm broke through Gordon's tense concentration on the pilots and he managed a smile of gratitude to the third member of this little crew. In the last three and a half hours he'd gone from being distracted by the waif-like figure of Marina, to being fascinated by her, and finally to accepting her as part of Stingray in the same way that Troy and Phones evidently did. Now he sipped from the bottle of water she'd brought him, watching as she returned to her seat and, carefully but unobtrusively, fastened the seat belt.

"Now at two metres above the floor, Troy," Phones reported tensely. "And we're sinking."

Tempest frowned, his fingers drumming against the steering column. Gordon saw his eyes dart over towards a red-lit status display before turning back towards his passengers.

"We've got one intact tank. I'd hoped to keep it in case we needed emergency manoeuvring capabilities, but needs must." He glanced towards Marina, nodding in approval as he saw her already strapped in. "Hold on, Gordon," he warned. "Taking tank two to fifty percent."

Dropping the water bottle, Gordon reached out with his free hand to grip the nearest solid purchase. His other arm was already wrapped around Alan's still form, holding his brother half-upright against his chest, in an attempt to ease his breathing. He tightened his hold as Stingray shuddered around him. He heard pumps roaring somewhere behind him and felt his ears pop as the cabin pressure changed. The floor rocked, the first time he'd felt the submarine actually become unsteady, and then pressed almost imperceptibly upwards against him.

"Left, Troy! Now right three degrees! Throttle back! You'll get us killed!"

Ahead of him, he heard Phone's frantic instructions, and he drew Alan more tightly into his arms as Troy threw the ship from side to side at what felt like full speed.

"We've got to make the most of this, Phones! The momentum is only going to keep us rising for so long."

The other man's tones were resigned, but urgent as he kept the stream of instructions coming. "Left twenty! Get the nose up! We'll only just clear it!"

"Tank two to twenty percent."

"Gordon?"

The small voice was muffled, its tone irritated. Crying out in surprise, Gordon released his hold on his brother and there was a matching cry as Alan's blanket-swathed form slid forward onto the still-unsteady cabin floor.

"Alan?" Gordon dived after him, ending up with one arm looped around the railings to the central pit, and the other holding Alan between him and it, trying to keep then both from sliding around the tilting floor. The blanket's had fallen away somewhere in the minor tussle it had taken to get them both secure, and Gordon felt his brother shiver in the comparative cold of the air.

Alan's face was pale and his hair looked as if it had been blown dry by a jet exhaust. But Gordon only cared about the cornflower-blue eyes that scanned the room with some confusion.

"Alan, are you …?"

Alan groaned, raising one hand to touch the back of his head. "I'm not feeling too good, Gordon."

"It's going to be okay, Alan. I'll get you out of here, just you wait and see. But you've got to stay awake for me, okay?" Gordon knew he was babbling. He tried to make his voice calm, soothing, not wanting to alarm Alan, and not wanting him to see just how worried he was. "Can you do that for me, Alan? I'll get us both home, and everything will be fine."

There was a moment of silence, broken only by muttered instructions from the front of the cabin. The sub's movements were settling down now, and she felt less like Thunderbird One slicing through the air and more like Two, wallowing in it.

Alan was giving him a strange, uncertain look.

"Alan? Just hold on for a few minutes longer and then we can sit down properly and get you warm again."

Now Alan cleared his throat, coughing a little when he realised how dry it was. When he spoke, it was with a great deal of caution. "Gordon, I don't get it. You do realise I'm not five any more, don't you? Are you all right?"

Gordon stared at him, and the younger man's expression actually became concerned. "Gordo?"

"Alan! You're okay!"

Alan groaned, rubbing the side of his head with one palm. "If this is okay, I don't want to start feeling bad." He hesitated, his expression becoming serious. "Did we put the fire out? Did Scott …?"

Gordon's delighted grin faded.

"Wish I knew. We're incommunicado down here."

Alan nodded, swallowing hard. He looked around him, and then gripped the railings a little more tightly, his face taking on a greenish cast.

"Think I'll keep my head still for a while," he noted, leaning forward so his forehead rested against the cool metal rail.

"You ought to be lying down."

"No kidding," Alan's voice was noticeably weaker than it had been just moments before. "I feel like I could sleep for a week."

"Don't." Gordon couldn't keep the shudder down. Still trying to keep his head still, Alan turned slightly to look at him. Gordon swallowed back the memories of the last three hours. "Really. Just don't."

The submarine settled into smooth motion, the roller coaster ride of the last few minutes apparently forgotten in a heartbeat.

"We're in the river channel, Troy," Phones reported from his seat in front of them. He shook his head in admiration. "I don't know how you did it, but we're clear all the way up the estuary from here."

Tempest turned in his seat. "Couldn't have done it without you, Phones. Marina?"

Gordon didn't hear a response, and from where he was still clinging to the rails he couldn't see her, but presumably the girl signalled her condition because Troy nodded.

"Good. Gordon?" He swivelled his chair through one hundred and eighty degrees so as to face them, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "And Alan, I see."

Alan held his weak grip on the railings, but his weight shifted back almost imperceptibly towards his brother. He eyed the unfamiliar aquanaut with wary confusion. "Uh, Gordon, where are we?"

"At this precise moment?" Troy intercepted the question, "In the River Hudson. About fifteen metres under a major shipping lane and heading up river."

"I think he's looking for a less specific answer," Gordon suggested with a smile. "What's the last thing you remember, Alan?"

"Thunderbird One," Alan said promptly. He raised a hand to his clearly painful head. "I … I guess I must have blacked out."

Gordon and Troy exchanged concerned looks. Alan's condition had undeniably improved but with headaches, nausea and memory loss, it was still far from good. Troy squatted on his haunches in front of them, taking a cushion from Marina and passing it to Gordon as he attempted to make his brother comfortable.

"Then, Alan, welcome aboard Stingray."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Gordon almost ignored Troy's gesture towards the front of the cabin. He didn't want to leave Alan's side for a minute, not now that his baby brother had come back to him. It was the tension in Tempest's back as he leaned in close to whisper to his navigator, and the reassuring smile the man cast towards Marina, that persuaded him. If Tempest was trying not to alarm his own crewmember, then whatever he had to say probably wasn't something Alan should be listening to.

He'd lain Alan down, huddled once more in blankets as he tried to stop the younger man's shivering. Alan's eyes were tired, and his words occasionally slurred, but the blue orbs no longer held the wide-eyed confusion that Gordon had found so disconcerting. Instead his younger brother appeared to be watching Marina's graceful movements in an entirely reassuring manner.

Gordon smiled, leaning forward to whisper in Alan's ear. "Don't make TinTin jealous now."

Alan's tired eyes opened wide, suddenly totally alert. "What! I wouldn't…" his voice trailed off as he saw Gordon's grin and realised he was being teased. "Oh, very funny," he said grumpily. "Make fun of the invalid."

Gordon patted his arm. "Now, now, Alan. You know I'd tease you anyway, invalid or not! Lie still for a minute, okay? I've got to go see what these WASPs are getting up to."

Phones spared him a smile and an amused chuckle as he made his way forward. "Who's TinTin?"

"How did you…?"

Phones tapped his ears. "Why do you think I took up listening as a career?" His smile faded as his attention was captured by the sonar screen. "Five degrees port, Troy, and straighten up in another three hundred metres."

Tempest nodded, following the instructions to the letter. Gordon shuddered as he gazed through the forward view port and into the impenetrable blackness beyond. By the time a rock was caught in Stingray's floodlights, they might as well have hit it. In a very real sense, despite Phones' protestations, Tempest was flying blind.

"I thought you told Alan we were only at fifteen metres. Shouldn't we be seeing daylight by now?"

Troy's grin was a little more forced than Gordon might have preferred. "We might be seeing a little more of the sun if it were actually up. It's the middle of the night, Gordon!"

Gordon felt his cheeks flushing in embarrassment, trying to work out the timing, first from the Island, then through the rescue and the hours since. It had been evening over the refinery, he realised, and they were probably still in the same time zone despite their long journey south.

"Oh, right." He hesitated. "You, ah, wanted to see me?"

The humour drained from Tempest's face. "Gordon, we've got problems."

Gordon leaned a little closer, not least so he could balance himself with one hand against Troy's chair. Stingray's pilot didn't even look around from his constant course adjustments to talk to his International Rescue guest. "More?" he asked weakly.

"I think we agree we still need to get Alan to a hospital as soon as possible."

"Sooner," Gordon agreed grimly.

"Well, we're at something more like sixteen metres below the surface, Gordon. And that's more or less where we're staying."

"Staying?"

"We've shed as much weight as we're going to and we're still sinking. Slowly, but surely." Troy's hand was holding a lever on his left-hand control yoke as far forward as it would go, and Gordon realised he could hear an unhappy whine from somewhere deep below him. "The water-jet thrusters on Stingray were never designed to actually support her weight for more than a few seconds. We're getting almost as much lift from simple hydrodynamics."

"But the plan…"

"The plan was to find an incline we could force Stingray to skid up through momentum alone. Well, from sixteen metres down that's not going to happen. We'd run out of speed and scrape the bottom out of the ship long before we broke the surface. At this rate we'll be lucky if we can ground Stingray close to the river bank rather than on a sand bar mid-stream."

Gordon felt himself slumping. Determinedly, he straightened, knowing Alan would be watching him from the back of the craft. He glanced back, momentarily alarmed to see Marina shaking his brother's shoulder, immensely relieved when the blue eyes opened in response.

"You said we're in the Hudson shipping lane?" he asked, remembering the last time he'd been here. Thunderbird Four had almost been trapped by a falling building back then, and he remembered the fear in Scott's voice as he called for him. Now … No, he wasn't thinking about Scott or about his family waiting for him up above. Time for that later.

Tempest nodded. "There's a deep water harbour up ahead. As I see it, that's our only chance. Sooner or later, someone has to spot us down here." He hesitated. "Gordon, you said your communicators wouldn't work at the depths we were at. Maybe now …?"

Gordon sighed, brushing a stray lock of strawberry blond hair out of his eyes, and shaking his head before Troy could finish the sentence. He raised his wrist to show Troy the small circular screen. "They're good through half a metre of rock. Maybe two or three of water. That's about it." He clenched his fists at his side, trying to fight off the feeling that everything he did was ineffectual. "If only Thunderbird Four were here. Her transmitter is ten times the strength of these things."

He saw the disappointment in Tempest's face, and realised that the aquanaut was more concerned than he appeared. Gordon sighed and pressed three buttons on opposite sides of his watch simultaneously, activating the emergency signal.

"Still, here goes nothing."

* * *

There were days when John loved his job. Days of stargazing and silence, calm and contemplation. Perhaps he'd read a new book, perhaps call home for a chat and to hear about the latest doings of the brothers he watched over.

The days he actually had to stand by and watch were the hard ones. He would take the calls, knowing as he heard each one which of his brothers Father would send to answer it. He would pass the news on, and listen as the Thunderbirds rushed into danger. He'd listen as Scott got angry with their younger brothers to hide the anxiety he felt for them. He'd listen to Virgil playing peacemaker, steady as a rock. He'd draw strength from them all, knowing that they trusted him to keep them informed and connected.

Now, staring down at the blue-white planet revolving below him, John had never felt more useless. Behind him, he heard the automatic "unable to assist" message whir into action, and a morbid curiosity forced him to the console and the headphones there. A minor situation, thankfully, one he'd have directed to the local emergency services even if Thunderbirds One and Two had been available. His breath caught in his throat at the thought, and his hands started to shake.

Thunderbird Two was on his monitors, racing back towards the last known location of her sister ship, but they'd lost so much more than a vehicle today. Listening to Scott and Virgil falling apart down there, he'd found himself wondering if Thunderbird Two would ever be used for a mission again. Listening to the silence where Gordon and Alan's voices should have been, he wondered if he cared.

He paced Thunderbird Five's main deck, frustrated, restless and grieving. Tears wouldn't come yet, couldn't come while there was the least uncertainty. Instead he felt unreal, disconnected from the hateful tin can that had been his home for the last few years. Wasn't there a song about that? How did it go?

"I'm floating in the most peculiar way," he muttered under his breath. "And the stars look very different today."

He shook himself, realising that his feet had carried him on his usual rounds, automatic reactions taking the place of thought. He was staring down at the IR internal communications console as it gave a loud beep and Brains, of all people, reported to base that he was Thunderbird Two was moving into position. Absently, John started rotating through the other IR frequencies, each of them assigned to a different instrument or agent. Penny might be their most active and knowledgeable agent, but she was by no means alone. Most knew no more than that they were working for IR. Several didn't even know that much. But each of them worked in often-dangerous conditions to keep the organisation supported and secret. John wasn't prepared to abandon them yet.

"Nothing from Lady Penelope," he spoke aloud more to ward off the silence than because he wanted to hear himself. "Nothing from our wiretap in the White House either. Hmm, seems like just for once we're off the President's radar today. Hey, now … what's that?"

The signal was intermittent, not lasting for more than a few milliseconds at a time and even then picked up at no more than the noise level. It had actually taken several microbursts over a ten minute period before the computer decided it was both real and on an IR frequency band. John squinted uncertainly at the reconstructed waveform. The computer could still be out by a large factor, he realised. It might not be anything to do with them, just a random coincidence of transmission frequency. Or it might be one of their people in trouble.

"Not today," John's jaw set into a stubborn line as he told the computer to put all its spare processing power into tracking the impossibly weak signal. "We're not losing anyone else today."

* * *

The cavernous hold of Pod Four echoed with the sound of Scott's footsteps. The inertial dampeners fitted to help absorb the shock of a water drop made had always made this the quietest of their equipment units. In any other pod, Scott would be gritting his teeth against the reverberation of Thunderbird Two's engines. Now he found he missed that. Despite the diving gear and waterproof equipment stored carefully around the walls, despite the squat form of Thunderbird Four, dwarfed by its hanger, the pod felt empty.

He stood at the base of Thunderbird Four's ramp, staring up at the craft's main airlock. He knew the code to enter it, the sequence almost as familiar to him as the activation code for his own Thunderbird One. He'd dived this submarine in the warm waters around the Island and he'd stood in it at Gordon's side as both of them risked their lives for others. Why did the thought of entering Thunderbird Four now fill him with a shivering horror?

Scott started when he heard the awkward, half-running footsteps behind him. He'd identified them as Brains long before the brown-haired scientist rounded the submarine and joined him at the small vehicle's hatchway.

"I..I thought I'd give you a hand with the, ah, pre-dive checks, Scott."

That earned him Scott's hardest stare and Brains flushed in the face of it. If there was one thing their team genius _wasn't_ good at, it was nonchalant misdirection. As he watched, the engineer attempted to lean casually against the side of the rescue sub, only for his hand to slip on the low-friction surface he had himself invented. He was still trying to catch his balance as Scott braced himself and climbed up to the airlock, tapping the code in one-handed as the other held the ladder.

"I have dived in Four before, Brains." His voice sounded calm in his own ears, even lightly amused. From the way Brains hesitated, pushing his glasses higher onto the ridge of his nose with one finger before scrambling into the airlock behind him, he wasn't hearing the same thing.

Thunderbird Four wakened to Scott's touch. By the time Brains had joined him, the airlock had confirmed equal pressure inside and out and opened the second door without closing the first. They stepped through into a neat little room, one seat in its centre commanding a two hundred and seventy degree suite of windows. Lights were flashing on the consoles as the small sub cycled through its first batch of self-diagnostics. The verdict of these would tell them whether they could trust the reports of the computer subsystems when they ran the pre-dive proper.

Scott nodded in satisfaction as a row of green lights illuminated, and started working systematically through the critical systems tests. This wouldn't take long. After all, Thunderbird Four was designed to launch at short notice, in far from optimal conditions.

It was only as he turned to snap irritably at Brains for hovering at his shoulder, that he remembered he was sitting in Gordon's chair.

"Ah… are you all right, S..Scott?"

The cold fire in his heart spread through his limbs, making him tremble. He struggled to breathe, struggled to regain the detachment that he'd been clinging to.

"Scott, I think you should let me take Thunderbird Four down there."

Incredulity broke through the pain. He laughed openly in Brains' face, some shivering part of him watching with dismay and self-loathing as he did so. "You? Shouldn't you be back hovering over Virgil?"

Brains adjusted his glasses again, and raised his weak chin in flushed defiance. "Your f..f..father asked me to help."

"Oh, and what else did he ask you to do, Brains? What did he say to you that has you hopping on the spot and stuttering your way to a standstill?"

Brains stared at him, and he stared back, both of them shocked. The scientist's face was turning red, spots of angry colour appearing on his cheeks.

"He t..told me not to let you get yourself k..k..killed, you i..idiot!"

Scott took a step backwards, feeling the words as a physical blow. Brains' hands were clenched into fists at his side, but his expression was dismayed.

"S..Scott. I d..d..didn't m..mean to …"

"Dad said that?"

"He's w..worried about you, Scott. You and Virgil both."

Scott turned away, resuming the pre-dive checklist as if he could pretend nothing had happened. "I'll do my job."

"Th..that's not what's worrying him."

Scott didn't meet his eyes. "I know." He glanced over his shoulder, not raising his gaze much about Brain's chest. "But I'll take Thunderbird Four out and I'll bring her back. Until Father says otherwise, Brains, I'm still in charge out here. There is no way I'm sending you down there. Or taking you. Virgil needs you more up here." He sat back, the pre-dive complete. "You'd better get going." He flicked a communications channel open. "Virgil, I'm sending Brains back up to you. Ready for pod deployment in sixty seconds – mark!"

"F.A.B."

Brains had backed into the airlock, his red-rimmed eyes full of worry. Without looking, Scott closed the inner door and spared himself the weight of that gaze.

* * *

Five minutes of intensive work later, John was not much wiser. The computer had picked up the signal three more times, strengthening its conclusion that the original transmission was at a frequency somewhere in the middle of International Rescue's working channels. With the full power of the space station focused on localising it, he was pretty sure the signal was somewhere on the eastern seaboard of North America, but where in that continent-scale conurbation he couldn't be sure. He thumped the console in frustration. This was like trying to see a snowflake in a tornado, illuminated by a strobe lamp.

"Once more," he pleaded aloud. "Just once … yes!"

Thunderbird Five's mainframe whirred as it tried to assimilate the latest snippet of signal into its model. Still not enough data, quite, but maybe enough for the computer to take its best guess? John held his breath as the picture displayed on his viewscreen narrowed from half a continent, to half a state, to a city and then …

"That can't be right."

Frowning, he studied the image of the night-darkened Hudson estuary, five hundred kilometres from the equally dark waters Thunderbird Two was heading for. If Thunderbird Five was right, the signal had to be coming from down there – and was probably moving. A hundred boats littered the surface, from sprightly hydrofoils to stately cruiseliners, fishing rigs to vast cargo vessels.

"But which one is it? I wonder … if I take a snapshot from each time…"

Working quickly, he logged into the monitoring satellite that fed International Rescue its pictures of the region, and began matching image captures of the computer's inferred locations with transmission times. He sat back, staring at the dozen or so images in frustration. Nothing! Not a single vehicle in sight on more than two or three of the pictures. The computer had to be wrong about the positions. After all, if a boat had tried making that kind of speed in a shipping lane this busy, they'd have heard all about the collisions.

His fingers stopped their rapid drumming on the console. If a _surface_ boat had.

Frowning, John squinted at the latest, most localised of the images. It was a deep-water harbour, lit by the glow of the city that had grown around it. A dozen container ships stood at their moorings around its edges, small from this distance, but each one rivalled Thunderbird Two for size. He zoomed in and in again, this time not caring that the shipping expanded off the edge of the screen. He squinted instead at the rough surface of the muddy water. It was distorted, a mixture of surface ripples and reflections from the harbour lights, but… Was that patch just a little paler than its surroundings?

"It's almost like lights … underwater. And is that … colour?"

He stacked the images together now, centring on the brightest mid-water location in each one and letting the waves blur together. The ripples of light greyed out, the fragments of colour combined, unmistakable now as they were drawn together from a dozen twisted glimpses. Yellow, definitely, and a shade of blue far brighter than the silt-laden water of the estuary. He stared. The shape could have been anything, but he knew those colours.

His attention snapped to the ongoing dialogue on the speakers, only now realising how intently he'd been concentrating. Thunderbird Two was hovering, Scott was in Four, about to go looking for Thunderbird One, and whatever he might find inside.

"Pod deployment in five," Scott said, and his voice was utterly toneless. "Four, three, two, one."

John slammed his hand on the transmit button. "Wait!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Virgil's lightning reaction surprised even him. His hand shot out, slamming down on the control override just moments before a red light told him Scott had hit the pod release switch. He held his breath, waiting for the judder and bucking of his controls that would let him know Pod Four had been deployed, and closed his eyes in relief when it didn't come.

"Thunderbird Two is holding on your signal, Thunderbird Five."

"What is it, John?" Jeff Tracy's voice was strained.

"One minute, Father."

Virgil ran his hand through his hair, trading confused looks with Brains. The scientist was breathless, forced by Scott's deliberately short countdown to run from the Pod into the main body of the ship. It wasn't like Scott to pull a stunt like that. Virgil wondered what Brains had done to anger his brother, but the pink flush behind his blue-rimmed glasses warned him that it might be best not to enquire.

The silence stretched out. Working on nervous energy, Virgil cancelled the still-pending pod release command, checking that the storage unit's electronics were still fully connected to its mother ship. Thunderbird Four's engines were active, he noticed, albeit idling. Sighing, he opened the vehicle-to-vehicle comms system.

"Better power down, Scott. You heard John."

It was a full three seconds before a light on his console told him that Thunderbird Four's engines were easing to a standstill, long enough for him to wonder if Scott had heard him, and to wonder what was going through his brother's mind.

"He shouldn't have interrupted," Scott grated. "We need to get down there."

Virgil sighed, not wanting to point out the obvious. Scott was obviously psyching himself up for whatever he might find down there in the ocean depths, and Virgil couldn't begin to imagine how, or how long it would be before Scott's detachment shattered. He felt nothing but horror as he tried to imagine searching the dark waters for the bodies of their brothers. A rising hysteria choked his throat at the thought and he pushed it back, concentrating instead on the fact that Scott was exhausted and not far off total collapse. Even if a minute here or there would make no difference at all to the occupants of Thunderbird One, it would make all the difference in the world to their eldest brother.

Glaring at the console, he hit the transmit button. "Thunderbird Five and Base from Thunderbird Two. What's the hold-up?"

John's appeared on the screen, his expression intent, but his eyes focussed to one side of the camera. "Thank you, Marineville," he said, nodding his acknowledgement as he leaned over the microphone. "We'll keep you informed. Thunderbird Five out." He blinked several times, turning back to the International Rescue internal camera feed. "I'll explain in a moment, Virgil. Father, are you on the line?"

There was anger in their Father's voice. "I've been waiting since you stopped transmitting!"

"I stopped the launch because I think we need Thunderbird Four elsewhere, Father."

Jeff Tracy's voice was incredulous. "We're not responding to other emergencies, John."

"No, Father. But I've been tracking a signal from deep in the Hudson estuary, almost in New York itself."

"What kind of signal?"

John hesitated. "Difficult to say for certain. I'm pretty sure it's a submarine, and from what I can see of it, it's displaying W.A.S.P. colours. They say they haven't got a sub anywhere near the place. Dad, I'm pretty sure it's Stingray."

"But that's five hundred miles from here!" Virgil exclaimed.

"Easily within Stingray's range given the time elapsed, Virgil."

"But what would Stingray be doing in the Hudson shipping lanes?"

"When a dolphin or whale gets trapped in a harbour like that, it usually means they're ill or in trouble and looking for shelter."

"And if that's true of whales, why not Stingrays?" Jeff concluded. He heaved a deep sigh, weariness leaching through every syllable as he spoke. "All right, John, I see what you're getting at."

"Dad," Scott's voice was clipped, the anger that had marked it for the last two hours buried under a veneer of abrupt efficiency. "If those men are in trouble, it's my responsibility."

"I agree, Scott, this is International Rescue's fault. It's up to us to put it right." Jeff Tracy took a deep breath, audible even over the crackling of the radio. "All right, John. You made the right call on this one. Thunderbird Two, take Thunderbird Four and investigate."

* * *

The container port was vast by most standards - a massive, hard walled basin designed to take the world's largest ships. The entirety of Tracy Island could fit within its perimeter and its dockyards never stopped, automatic machines loading and unloading cargo with little regard for day and night.

Up on the surface it was a bustling, lively place. Down here in Stingray, it felt like a concrete-lined trap. Above them, silhouetted against the diffuse glow of the city lights, he could make out the vast bulk of the ships. Gordon wanted to shout up at the mariners, tell them to look down, will them to see the stricken submarine trapped just below them. Stingray couldn't even climb high enough in the water to try tapping on the huge metal hulls.

It was an hour since they had entered the deep-water port, an hour spent describe a steady down-spiral so close to civilisation and medical care for Alan that it almost hurt, but completely out of reach.

Alan was sleeping now, and Gordon had resigned himself to the fact that after close on thirty-six hours awake, he wasn't going to be able to keep his brother from dozing, concussion or not. At least Alan roused readily enough after his first twenty-minute nap, albeit complaining still of headaches and nausea. Gordon could only pray that he'd respond as well the next time they tried to wake him.

Gordon supposed he should rest himself, but sleep was elusive. He sat with his back to the cabin wall, Alan's head lying on a folded blanket by his feet. Marina had curled up in her chair, saying goodnight with a smile and a nod. The sigh of rippling waves came very quietly from her console, obviously helping her to sleep. Otherwise it was quiet on Stingray. The constant murmur of instructions from Phones had died away and the hydrophone operator was leaning back in his seat, his eyes closed. There was nothing to bump into down here, nothing but the thick bed of silt that started a dozen metres below them. Tempest remained at the controls, keeping them moving in a wide circle, trying to maintain enough speed for Stingray's sleek lines to offer them some degree of hydrodynamic lift.

"Four hours since we crashed," Gordon noted under his breath. "The fellas could be back there with Thunderbird Four by now."

"Assuming nothing went wrong at the refinery." Gordon started, a little surprised that Troy had heard him from several meters away. He'd forgotten how sound carried in a silent sub. He stood, careful not to disturb Alan, and moved forward to stand next to the pilot as Troy went on in a soft voice. "Assuming that your Thunderbird Two could go at top speed. Assuming they were prepared to risk a night dive. Assuming that they even wanted to look. Gordon, we went through this before coming here. Even in a best-case scenario, if Thunderbird One hadn't flooded and you'd been able to stay inside, you'd have been out of air three hours ago. They have to know that. There's no guarantee they'd even try to recover the plane rather than leaving it for W.A.S.P. to handle. We couldn't risk the delay in medical care for Alan on the off-chance."

Gordon shuddered, wishing more than anything that he could call his family, to reassure them, and for them to reassure him. The shaking of his shoulders turned into a silent laugh. Why not simply wish that none of this had happened? It was equally impossible.

"They'll be back there as soon as they can," Alan's voice came as a welcome surprise, and both Troy and Gordon turned back to where he were sitting up, face in his hands. He raised his head, looking blearily back at them. "But thanks for trying this, anyway." He smiled wanly. "Any chance of a painkiller?" he asked for at least the tenth time.

Gordon managed a smile in return, giving the same answer he'd given the first nine. "Not 'till we've had a doctor take a look at you, Alan. Sorry."

Troy made an adjustment to the control yoke, wincing as he muttered to himself. "Thruster efficiency down to twenty percent. That's not good."

Alan groaned, shifting so he could sit upright and lean his head back against the wall.

"What happens if we sink?" he asked. "Don't look at me like that, Gordon. I'm not completely oblivious to what's happening. Well, Troy?"

"I reckon we'd slide into that mud like an elephant in quicksand, but it shouldn't be too much of a problem. Stingray reprocesses her air and the atomic engines will keep us going until the food runs out. Don't worry. It might take a few months but there should be a dredging crew through here before then." The aquanaut smiled, his expression cheerful and confident despite the tired lines around his eyes. "I guess we all get to know one another a lot better, Alan."

Alan laughed, and then cried out, clamping his hands to his temples as the noise and motion made his headache explode back to full strength. He gritted his teeth, and blinked back tears as he looked up. "I don't think I'm going to be around to enjoy it."

Gordon crossed the cabin in five strides, dropping to his knees by his brother's side and taking his shoulders. His arms trembled with the effort of not shaking the younger man. "Don't say that, Alan!" His voice was shaking too. He pulled Alan into a gentle embrace, before letting him go. "Don't ever say that! We're going to be fine, all of us." He forced a smile onto his face, and knew it didn't reach his eyes. "What would Scott say if he heard you talking like that? Virgil would probably never speak to you again. You've been through too much to give up now."

"I … whoa!" Alan's reply was cut off by the way the floor bucked under him. Gordon braced himself, one arm still holding his brother as the second slammed into the wall beside him.

"Troy!"

The pilot was wrestling with his control column, struggling to right the ship. "Something just knocked us for six." He dropped his voice, talking to the submarine itself. "Come on, baby. On a day like today, even a tsunami isn't going to stop us."

"What on Earth?" Phones eyes snapped open and his hands went up to secure his headset over his ears. "Troy, there's something big up above. Rectangular profile. Got to be thirty meters long and I'd swear it wasn't there a minute ago. It's like the darn thing dropped out of the sky!"

"Going by the shockwave I'd believe you. What is it?"

"Hold on, Troy, I'm getting another signal. This one's smaller: eight, maybe nine meters long. Moving fast."

"Yellow?" Alan offered from where he was still leaning against the wall.

"Now how the blazes would I tell that?" Phones glanced over his shoulder, and then swung his chair around completely, staring at the broad smiles on the faces of his guests.

* * *

The waters of the Hudson were thick and silt-laden. It was a wonder that John, working from a satellite feed alone, had seen anything in this soupy mess. With a frown, Scott cut the power to the headlights. They were doing no more than illuminating the sediment, turning the brown water into an intimidatingly solid-looking wall. He was better off navigating by sonar.

And, he realised as his eyes adjusted to gloom, by the dim light up ahead. Scott squinted at it, lining it up with the fast-moving blip on his sonar screen. John had been right about one thing. There was definitely another sub down here. And it certainly wasn't responding to hails.

"This is Thunderbird Four of International Rescue calling unknown submarine vessel. Are you in need of assistance?"

The submarine was directly under him now, streaking past as it continued its apparently endless circuit of the harbour. Flooding another of his floatation tanks and angling the engine outlets upwards, he descended cautiously into the depths.

"International Rescue, this is Thunderbird Four," he reported "Unknown craft is circling in a clockwise direction. Matching depth and moving anticlockwise to intercept." His eyes were glued to the sonar as he closed on the other submarine, veering slightly wide to avoid a collision. "Should have visual in thirty seconds." He waited. "Twenty. Ten."

The submarine shot past, its closing speed close on two hundred knots. Scott opened his eyes wide, forcing himself not to blink, not daring to miss the brief chance of studying the vessel. As John had noted the colours were unmistakeable, and when he finally let his eyes blink shut, the name on her flank was burned across the inside of his eyes.

"Well, it's definitely Stingray," he said grimly. "But unless they slow down, docking isn't going to be any kind of a picnic."

* * *

"Yellow it is," Troy smiled. "Are you sure it was yours?"

Standing at the rear of the ship, watching the forward view screens intently, Gordon nodded. There was no way he could ever mistake that outline. "They've found us," he breathed.

"International Rescue has a reputation for doing the impossible, you should know that better than most." Troy's smile faded, and he looked enquiringly at Phones.

"Thunderbird Four is moving to parallel our course, Troy, accelerating to match our speed at the next pass. You're going to have to hold it steady."

Troy nodded. "Steady at 100 knots. I've already dropped half our speed – we're sinking faster."

"Thunderbird Four is coming alongside. Lining up with our airlock."

Troy winced. "We really don't need a collision at this speed. I just hope your aquanaut is good."

"Yeah, he is." Alan struggled to his feet to stand by his brother, shrugging off Gordon's concerned protest. He swayed, and relented draping an arm around Marina's shoulders as she came forward to support him. He nodded at Gordon. "It's a shame he's not aboard Thunderbird Four."

Gordon frowned, his elation at seeing his Thunderbird fading as he wondered exactly who was aboard it. There were a limited number of options, and each of them would tell its own story. He thought back to the refinery fire, heart in his mouth, and wondered how he'd react if Virgil came through the airlock, or worse still, Brains.

* * *

"Easy does it."

There were streaks of paint missing from Stingray's side, Scott noticed as he drew alongside her. A row of hull plates on her left flank were buckled and torn, and from the way the tear followed the curve of the ship, he was pretty sure that there had to be more damage beyond his line of sight. The submarine looked as if it had been thrown into a washing machine with a handful of rocks, and then put on the spin cycle. He shivered, knowing that if she'd been caught in the whirlpool he'd caused, that was pretty close to what had happened.

"Speed matched, direction looks good. Docking in three… two… one."

The shock of contact threw Scott sideways in his chair, and then forwards into the control console as the magnetic clamps held, matching the last few meters per second of Thunderbird Four's velocity to that of the larger craft.

Winded, Scott eased himself back into his chair. "They'd better have a very good reason for this much speed," he muttered as Thunderbird Four's gauges showed that the docked ships were accelerating once again.

"Docked," he added, speaking into the microphone.

"Scott, your, ah, depth is now eighteen m..meters." Brain's told him from his monitoring station on the hovering Thunderbird Two.

"Acknowledged," Scott snapped. "Will report when I've made contact with the submariners."

He flicked the microphone off without waiting for an answer, activating the hatchway from the console. He shrugged as he stood up, tugging his sash into position with an automatic gesture as he waited for the airlock to cycle.

The W.A.S.P. captain and his navigator were ahead of him as he entered the cabin. His eyes flicked past them, noting that they appeared to be uninjured and moving on. There was supposed to be a third crew member…

"Scott!"

His head snapped around so quickly that he felt the pain in his neck as a distant echo. He stared at them, willing himself to believe, feeling everything spinning as he dared to hope.

And then the world went black.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Scott's uniform was crumpled and streaked with mud. He looked a decade older than he had this morning, his dark brown hair forming a stark contrast against his pale skin. His expression was empty, his blue eyes flat and dead rather than their usual laughing selves. Gordon was so glad to see him, he couldn't have cared less.

"Scott!" Alan's delighted cry beat him to it and Scott responded instantly, turning towards them.

Gazing at them with the blood draining from his face.

Collapsing bonelessly into a crumpled heap on the ground.

"Scott!" Now Gordon did call out, scrambling forward and dropping to his knees at Scott's side with Alan moments behind them. He relaxed a little as he checked his eldest brother's breathing and pulse were still strong. He looked up as Tempest appeared beside him, and gestured to the small chamber barely visible through the open airlock. "I'd better …"

"Go," Tempest told him simply.

Nodding, Gordon patted Alan on the shoulder and stood, scrambling into Thunderbird Four and settling into his familiar chair with a feeling of overwhelming relief. A glance at the lights on the console told him his family was waiting for news and he hesitated, knowing he'd never forget the look on Scott's face. Somehow he'd never believed that his brother would give up on them.

He tried for a smile as he flicked the channel open, and spoke in a casual, almost conversational tone. "Base, Two and Five from Thunderbird Four. Scott just, ah, passed out. I guess you guys have been pretty anxious about us."

He counted to seven as he waited for a response, suddenly worried that he'd been too casual, given them too much of a shock. John was the first to find his voice.

"Gordon," he said quietly, and there was a wealth of emotion in the one word. "I wondered if it was you down there."

"Gordon!" Virgil was less restrained. His shout echoed off the walls of Thunderbird Four and died away as he stopped apparently lost for words.

His father took the longest to reply, and his voice was shaky, something very much like a suppressed sob punctuating it. "You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice, son," he said quietly. He hesitated, and Gordon could tell his father was steeling himself against the answer to his next question by the tension as he asked it. "Is your brother with you?"

"Alan? Yeah, I left him looking after Scott." Gordon heard a high-pitched sob that sounded like TinTin in the background, and his father's quivering intake of breath. He hated himself for interrupting it. "But, Dad, I'm pretty worried about him. He had a nasty knock to the head when we crashed. We were trying to get him to a hospital, but …"

His father was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again it was with renewed authority. "What's the situation, Gordon?" he asked briskly.

"Stingray's floatation tanks are ruptured, we can't surface. In fact we have negative bouyancy."

Virgil's voice broke across the channel. "And you couldn't have called?" he exclaimed.

"I wish I could've, Virgil." Gordon was haunted by the image of Scott's expression. He closed his eyes and it was still there, floating accusingly in front of him. "Believe me, I really do."

"Brains, can Thunderbird Two lift Stingray's weight?"

"Well, Mr Tracy, it's beyond the specified w..w..weight tolerances. But she's lifted larger weights before, albeit briefly. If we can get the, ah, magnetic lines down to her, we should be able to at least lift her to the s..surface, if not out of it."

"Gordon, I can drop the lines, but I'm not sure I can get a good contact with this much water between us." Virgil's rich voice sounded tired, but confident. "Can you use Thunderbird Four to place the magnets?"

Gordon hesitated. "It's not going to be easy, Virgil. Stingray's thrusters are just about worn out. If she slows down too much, she'll sink like a stone."

"It won't be easy here either, but I can match Stingray's speed if she's going in a straight line." There was a muffled conversation in Thunderbird Two, and Virgil's voice dropped as he turned his head away from the speakers. "No, Brains, I am not letting you fly Thunderbird Two. I am perfectly capable…"

"You al..almost crashed her a minute ago!"

"Yeah, well. At least I didn't faint!"

Gordon couldn't suppress his grin. He had a sneaking feeling that their eldest brother was going to get very tired of hearing that phrase. "Look, it's worth a try. Can you work out the details? I ought to go talk to Troy and check on Scott and Alan."

"F.A.B., Gordon." Virgil's voice softened and there was more emotion in it than Gordon felt comfortable hearing. "Don't be gone so long, this time, okay?"

* * *

Gordon closed the channel quickly, not sure he could cope with hearing any more. His eyes scanned rapidly across Thunderbird Four's status displays. The compact sub was set for neutral buoyancy, but Scott had powered down the engines after docking, letting the more powerful Stingray provide forward momentum for both craft. Pumping out the floatation tanks to fifty percent, lightening the load still further, was easy. Doing more would be harder. Carefully, giving Troy time to adjust to the impulse, he brought Thunderbird Four's engines back online, directing them as far downwards as they would go. Satisfied that Tempest was balancing the off-centre force with Stingray's thrusters, Gordon locked the controls. Four would never lift Stingray's weight, but every little was going to help.

Phones nodded a grateful acknowledgement as Gordon slipped back into Stingray's main cabin. Troy was back at the controls, and he shot Gordon a smile. Then he tilted his head towards the rear of the cabin, his expression a little worried.

Scott was awake, kneeling on the cabin floor, but his eyes were screwed tightly shut, his cheek pressed against Alan's blond hair as he held his brother tightly to him. Alan himself looked frankly more than a little frightened by the intensity in Scott's embrace. His eyes met Gordon's in mute appeal.

Gordon took a deep breath, leaning against the frame of the airlock. Alan hadn't spoken to the rest of the family. Hopefully he'd never understand quite what their brothers had been through. Gordon gave him a quick smile and stepped forward and squatted down beside them, touching Scott's shoulder lightly. "Alan's been feeling a bit queasy there, Scott. You'd better let him breathe or you might regret it."

Scott's eyes snapped open, and he released Alan, swinging around to wrap his arms tightly around Gordon instead. For a moment, Gordon was a five-year-old child again, in the safety of his eldest brother's arms. He allowed himself to hug Scott back, tears in his eyes as he let go of the fears he'd carried since seeing the fires at the refinery. Then he eased back gently. "You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," Scott's voice was tired. His eyes widened. "We have to tell Dad you're alive. And the others! They …"

"Relax, Scott! I just spoke to them." Gordon tried hard not to show how shaken he was by the experience. He looked up at Tempest. "Troy, can you head back out and down-river? If we can get a long enough stretch of water, Thunderbird Two will match our speed and drop us a line."

"What…?"

Gordon stood, and looked down at his two kneeling brothers. Alan was pale but supporting his own weight, albeit with his palms pressed to the ground for balance. Scott looked ready to drop. Again.

"Relax, Scott," he repeated. "Thunderbird Four's a one-man craft. You got her down here, and that was good driving! Now sit down and rest. I can handle the rest."

* * *

The edges of the world were a grey fuzz and Scott felt as if his brain was taking several seconds to catch up every time he moved his head. It had taken ten minutes and the strongest coffee Stingray carried to get him back on his feet.

He'd gathered enough from the low-voiced discussion between Gordon and Tempest though to realise that what they were trying was tricky to say the least. Stingray had run almost ten kilometres down the deep-water river channel with Thunderbird Four docked, providing what extra lift she could. Now Gordon had returned to his own submarine, and Tempest was nursing Stingray through a one hundred and eighty degree turn, muttering in annoyance with every centimetre of depth they lost.

Above them, the water-diffused lights of the city had faded into a dull murk. Somewhere up there cargo ships and pleasure cruisers alike were being ordered out of Thunderbird Two's way. He knew from past experience that they wouldn't like it. More worrying was the fact that at least a few of the slower moving ships almost certainly couldn't comply even if their captains wanted to.

"All right, Troy," Gordon shouted through the airlock from Thunderbird Four. "Just straighten up there and keep going. I'll make sure the magnets get a firm anchor, and then we'll have you out of here in no time flat."

Tempest nodded, although the look he exchanged with his hydrophone operator was tense. "Get going, Gordon," he called back.

Tempest winced as Gordon powered down Thunderbird Four's engines before detaching the craft. His eyes on Stingray's depth meter, Scott noticed the steady increase in depth a few seconds later.

"I take it that's not good," he asked rhetorically, gesturing at the gauge.

"According to Gordon, Thunderbird Two wont have problems as long as we don't go below twenty-five." Tempest turned in his seat with a warm smile. Stingray's pilot was about his own age, Scott judged, and going by the stories told about this craft, almost as accustomed to difficult missions. Now Tempest gave Thunderbird Four a wave as it hovered for a moment before their front view port. "Gordon's a lot more commanding when he has his sub around, isn't he?"

Scott nodded, smiling despite himself.

"He more or less has to be. In water rescues he's the one calling the shots."

Troy nodded. "Well it sounds like he and your brother Virgil know what they're doing."

"I just hope Virgil can keep Thunderbird Two steady." The words escaped before Scott could censor them and he frowned at himself as Troy's confident expression faded. Great. He'd already broken the first rule of rescues today by letting himself become another victim. Now he'd broken the second: never let the rescuee see your doubts. He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

He turned abruptly, heading to the back of the boat where Alan was curled up, once again asleep. He squatted by his brother, brushing a stray lock of blond hair out of his eyes. When he looked up, Tempest was standing beside him, giving Scott a long, considering look.

"Scott, don't apologise. From what Gordon told me about Thunderbird One, I guess I know what you've been going through. I can't imagine how I'd feel if I lost Phones and Marina. I have no idea how you could set out on another rescue when you thought your brothers were dead."

Scott couldn't meet his eyes. He fixed his gaze on Alan's comforting form, clenching his fists by his side as he tried to force back the memories. He found he was blinking back tears, his guts clenching and an icy chill spreading through him.

"Shouldn't you be at the controls?"

Tempest sighed, sensing that Scott wasn't the type to open up to strangers. "Phones can hold her straight and steady." He paused. "Your father must be very proud."

"Troy!" Phones' call from the front of the boat saved Scott from having to answer. Tempest was back at his controls in moments, making adjustments as Phones called out the dimensions of the vessel that stood between them and the surface.

"Are Thunderbird Four and Thunderbird Two keeping up?" he asked briskly after a second.

Phones grinned. "Four seems like a nippy little thing, and I reckon that this Virgil is keeping track of it. The line on our front right quadrant hasn't even approached tight."

Scott blinked. "They have a line attached already?" he called softly, moving forward to watch.

"If they hadn't we wouldn't have had to dodge." Troy tested the feel of his controls as he pulled Stingray back onto course and back up to cruising velocity. "Hmm, another half-metre," he muttered, confirming his estimate with a check on the depth gauge before looking up at Scott. "W.A.S.P. gossip always had Gordon Tracy pegged as good."

Scott hesitated, peering at Stingray's scanner screen and trying to work out if there was another obstruction up ahead before speaking. He didn't want this particular conversation to be interrupted.

"Seems like Gordon told you a fair bit," he noted seriously.

Tempest glanced at the scanner himself before handing primary control back to Phones. "About the fire at the refinery, and what happened there, yes. About International Rescue, no. He didn't tell and I didn't ask. To be honest, once I knew who he was, the rest more or less followed. It doesn't take a genius to match up Gordon's and his four brothers with International Rescue, not when you consider your family's reputations."

"We're a secret organisation for a reason, Troy."

Tempest grinned, refusing to respond to the uncompromising humourlessness of Scott's tone. "Relax, Scott. What happens on Stingray, stays on Stingray, if that's the way you want it. Right, Phones?"

"Right, Troy," Phones agreed, winking as he glanced over his shoulder at the third crewmember. "Our lips are sealed. And that goes double for Marina."

The slender girl smiled and nodded, miming a zip closing as she drew one hand across her lips. Tempest gave her a smile in return before turning back to Scott, and now his eyes were serious too. "W.A.S.P. doesn't forget our debts, Scott. Commander Shore might have me keel-hauled, but I'll not say a word more than International Rescue has already told him."

Scott managed a wan smile, reassured that the security hazard wasn't as severe as he'd feared. He leaned back against the railing to Stingray's central pit and smiled. "I suspect that your Commander is going to be in the loop anyway, Troy. From what I heard before Gordon undocked, John was suggesting we send Alan to a W.A.S.P. hospital when we get to the surface."

"John? That's your last brother, isn't it? I wondered what had become of him. Where is he?"

Scott sank down so he was sitting with his back against the railings and leaned forward conspiratorially.

"You'd never believe me if I told you."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

"Increase speed by two knots, Virge."

Virgil nodded automatically in response to his brother's instruction, despite knowing that Gordon couldn't see him.

"Th..that's, ah, two point three zero miles per hour, Virgil."

"Thanks, Brains."

A headache was forming at a point somewhere between Virgil's eyes. Keeping up with Gordon's instructions was straining his powers of concentration. In theory, it should have been simple – while Stingray's location was a mystery to him, he could follow Thunderbird Four's powerful beacon with his eyes closed and Stingray was maintaining as close to a constant course as possible. In practice, he had no idea how Gordon was predicting and compensating for the effects of the river's rip tides with anywhere near this precision.

He squinted ahead of him, wondering how long their luck would hold out. John's urgent instructions to the Port of New York authority had been met with various levels of compliance and incredulity by the ship's captains asked to move out of the way. So far he'd managed to avoid hitting any of the larger and slower moving vessels, but it had been a near thing and taken a certain amount of very careful manoeuvring both above and below the waterline.

He cleared his throat. "Dropping third and fourth magnetic lines," he announced.

"Two at once, Virgil?" Gordon asked, worried.

"Stingray's losing depth every time we have to dodge a boat, Gordon." He eyed the ever-approaching sky-scrapers a tad nervously. Turning upstream so the current helped Stingray's hydrodynamics rather than fighting them had seemed like a good idea at the time. As they closed in on the brightly lit mass of New York City, he was less certain. "And I didn't want to mention it before, but we're running out of river."

Gordon was silent for a lengthy moment. "Lines three and four, F.A.B."

At least these should be the easy ones, relatively speaking. The first two magnetic clamps had already been nudged into place on the most nearly planar parts of Stingray's forward section. If the lines had been taut, they'd have held Stingray and Thunderbird Two in a fixed relative position, and Virgil could have sent the remaining two electromagnets plunging into the water by blind reckoning alone. In this case, that wasn't going to happen. If the two cables already fixed had to take the full force of Stingray's weight for even a split second they'd break loose and they'd be back to square one – in a best case scenario. In the worst case, they could snap completely, the cables whipping back to lacerate the winch and the aeroplane that carried it.

Instead, Gordon was now navigating Thunderbird Four effectively blind through water thick with the sediment of half a continent, fighting the current, dodging Stingray's engine wake and concentrating on not getting snarled in the two steel cables hanging loose in the water. Scott couldn't have done it; Gordon had barely blinked at the prospect.

Virgil squinted against the city lights as Gordon reported that he'd caught and then placed the third magnet to the rear of Stingray's conning tower. They were entering the suburbs of the city itself now, low houses set back to either side of the broad river. With each passing moment, the density of the building was increasing, and so was its height. In perhaps a minute, Thunderbird Two would be flying below the level of the rooftops, skyscrapers climbing to either side of the river channel. Seconds after that, they'd encounter their first bridge.

"Come on, Gordon," Virgil urged aloud. His finger hovered over the emergency release for the electromagnets. "We're running out of time!"

* * *

Gordon gritted his teeth as he heard Virgil's exhortation. He'd like to see anyone else do this more quickly. Thunderbird Four moved to his touch, scooting in a quick loop around Stingray, crossing under the other submarine rather than risking ensnarement in the cables above.

He held his breath as he sent a burst of high frequency sonar waves bouncing through his environment. Usually he wouldn't use this kind of intensity. It would rattle the sea life for miles around and ring through Stingray's hull like a bell. On the other hand, it was the only detector he had that stood a chance of picking out the slender cable quickly and going by the tone in his brother's transmission, he didn't have time to fish around in the dark.

There! A line painted through the water, a disk at its end marking out the position of the electromagnet. He manoeuvred Thunderbird Four in place, gripping the cable with his forward pincers and scooting to the back of the ship. He was sure he'd seen a flat region that looked as if it could take some weight … Yes.

He hesitated, fighting the urge to return to Stingray and be with his brothers as they were pulled from the water. Common sense and the experience of his long years in International Rescue won out. Judging by the fear in Virgil's voice, there simply wasn't time.

* * *

"Line four in place, Virgil!" There was a blaze of red light down below, the underwater flare signalling to Stingray that it was safe for them to cut their engines. A moment later, Gordon's voice was back on the line. "Thunderbird Four is diving clear. You're good to go!"

Perspiration stood out on Virgil's brow. He fired Thunderbird Two's retrorockets in the same second that Brain's started the winch. The four cables snapped taut simultaneously, water running off them in streams as they took in the slack. Thunderbird Two became sluggish to his commands, the extra weight telling as the deep note of her engines became louder and hoarser. There was a higher pitched whine too, rattling interspersed with the scream of overstrained metal. He'd heard it before.

"That's the winch!" Virgil snapped over his shoulder to Brains. "Lock it off before it fails."

The engineer didn't argue against the voice of experience. The winch juddered to a halt with twelve meters of cable now on the drum. Stingray was still almost ten metres below the surface, and she wasn't going to get any higher unless Thunderbird Two took her. Virgil checked his airspeed and the space left to him, making a quick mental calculation.

"Switching to vertical jets."

Thunderbird Two was still travelling at close to a hundred miles an hour as the huge thrusters on each corner of her lifting frame fired. With Pod Four still on the surface, the plane was barely half her normal weight, but the weight of Stingray suspended from her nose section more than compensated. She rose in a steep climb, her nose angled downward as if the ship was bowing. Aerodynamically, it was a poor configuration and Virgil clamped his jaw shut as she juddered violently. He'd been in enough turbulence to know that he risked biting his own tongue on an unexpected bump.

The city lights were looming ahead, ever closer. Oh, this was going to be tight.

His eyes glued to the bridge on the ever-closer horizon, Virgil missed seeing the moment when Stingray broke the surface. He only felt it when she lifted clear completely, jerking Thunderbird Two forward and downward through the combination of lost buoyancy and decreased friction.

"Whoa," Virgil muttered quietly. Forcing the vertical engines into overdrive, he hauled Thunderbird Two's nose up and lifted her as quickly as he could, firing the retros continuously to check her forward speed.

If it had been a suspension bridge, they wouldn't have stood a chance. Instead the road bridge ahead was a squat affair, supported from beneath by a series of pillars, with two storeys of traffic crossing the dark waters below. Suspended fifty feet below the bulk of Thunderbird Two, Stingray cleared the top deck of the bridge by less than the height of the streetlights. The slender metal poles didn't stand a chance against the momentum of submarine and plane combined, and there were sparks as the lights on the bridge shorted out. Stingray put out any fire before it started. Water poured from her ruptured floatation tanks, and the cars beneath swerved to avoid the sudden torrent.

Virgil resisted the urge to swerve too. The river channel here wasn't much broader than Thunderbird Two's wingspan and the development came virtually to the water's edge on either side. Very, very carefully, he brought Thunderbird Two to a hover, and waited for the submarine dangling below to stop swaying, wincing for the sake of its passengers. They'd probably never expected to get airsick in a sub.

Only now did Virgil begin the difficult task of rotating through one hundred and eighty degrees on the spot. He had to get Stingray out of the downtown region. He heard a creak and felt a shudder run through the ship as the winch gear shifted a fraction. The weight was starting to tell. He had to do this fast.

"Thunderbird Two, you can deposit your cargo in Waterside Park. W.A.S.P. ambulances will meet it there."

John's voice from Thunderbird Five was a lifeline. Brains was already studying a map of the area on his screen when Virgil turned in his seat to ask. "Six hundred, ah, meters to the south east of our c..c..current position, Virgil. And you'd b..better hurry."

"F.A.B." Virgil muttered under his breath.

Waterside Park was a broad, open space, its perimeter lined with trees. In the middle of the day, it was probably a thronged haven, offering escape from the concrete metropolis that surrounded it. Now, in the early hours of the morning, it was populated by no more than a few urban foxes.

A flat, grassy field ran down to the water's edge, its centre marked out with the white chalk of a baseball diamond. Virgil caught himself wandering how many balls they lost into the water as he manoeuvred Thunderbird Two carefully. With any luck, that would soon be the least of their worries.

Thankful that the submarine had a virtually flat bottom, he began lowering Stingray dead centre onto the pitcher's mark. She was a metre off the ground when the front left magnet slipped and she fell forward, striking the ground with a bump. Virgil paled as the other three magnets gave way in a cascade failure, each unable to cope with the increased weight caused by the loss of the last. He let out a shaky breath as the submarine rocked for a moment and then settled, sitting upright on the pitch. The fall might leave a nasty dent for the kiddies' baseball team to find in the morning, but Stingray had been no more than a few centimetres off the ground before he'd lost the last contact. He shuddered as he realised that it could easily have been much, much worse.

"Thunderbird Two. Stingray is down safe and sound," he reported, tired but elated.

"Retracting magnetic cables now," Brains added aloud.

They both looked up at the distant sound of sirens. Virgil winced from the hovering Thunderbird Two as squat vehicles left deep tire ruts in the playing field. It was not the day to be groundskeeper in this park.

"Three ambulances have arrived. Stingray's top hatch is opening." He grinned as Scott's distinctive head of dark brown hair poked out, looking up at Thunderbird Two's looming bulk with a wave. "They're okay!" He was still smiling as he glanced at his communication display to check that the Island was still listening in. "Thunderbird Two reports rescue complete, Father. And successful."

"Great job, Virgil, Gordon." Jeff Tracy's voice sounded as tired as Virgil felt.

Exhausted, but feeling like himself for the first time in far too long, Virgil opened a channel to Thunderbird Four. "Race you back to the pod, Gordon?"

"In your dreams, Virge. I'll be back there before you can even turn that behemoth around."

Virgil smiled, not caring for once that his brother was probably right. "That's what you think."

The pod door was closing when Thunderbird Two reached it, signalling its readiness for pickup. Virgil could have lined up on it in his sleep and nearly did so. His eyes were drifting closed, but John had already sent the details of the W.A.S.P. hospital their brothers were being taken to: a discrete little place with enough open space behind it to park Thunderbird Two until he was ready to take her home.

"Virgil?" Gordon's voice over the radio was thoughtful and Virgil's eyes scanned his status displays to check the pod had docked properly before replying.

"Yes, Gordon?"

"I didn't know you got them this far north."

Virgil exchanged a confused look with Brains. The engineer was standing, ready to head down to the hanger to help Gordon with Thunderbird Four's shutdown. Virgil hesitated for a moment before waving him instead towards Thunderbird Two's controls. Brains' eyes widened, but he slipped into the pilot's seat with an understanding nod. Virgil didn't want to put off the reunion with his brother for a moment. Even so, he leaned over the panel to speak into the microphone before he left the cabin.

"Got what?" he asked.

He didn't have to see Gordon's face to recognise the grin in his brother's voice. He groaned before Gordon got to the punch line, sensing the joke coming and delighting in it.

"Why, flying fish, of course."


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The sun was beating down hard, warming the breeze that blew in from the ocean. It picked out the colours on Virgil's canvas as he painted the view from the poolside, out over the forest and down to the beach. From his vantage point on the balcony to his room, Scott could see the exquisite precision of Virgil's work. He nodded to himself, knowing that his father would view this latest creation with some relief. On the surface, Virgil had put the stresses of four weeks ago behind him, but his artistic brother's last two paintings had been frankly alarming masses of violent and abstract colour. Perhaps, finally, Virgil was feeling ready now to see the world for what it was.

John was buried in a book, lying almost flat on his sun-lounger with sunglasses to block out the worst of the glare. His pale skin showed the slight sheen of sun block and, even so, Scott made a mental note to raise an umbrella over his brother as soon as he went down there. John didn't get enough sunlight in a usual year to develop much of a tolerance for it. The last month had been punctuated by episodes in which John had looked more like a boiled lobster than his usual self. He was reading a new book, flicking through the pages at his usual voracious pace, and that was a good sign too. John might never have accepted the reality of loss in the same way Virgil and Scott himself had, but even so he'd spent more of the first few weeks peering over the top of his book to reassure himself that Gordon and Alan were still there than he had actually reading.

The two younger boys themselves were in the pool, Gordon teasing his little brother by diving underwater and tugging on his ankles. Alan sank momentarily, and rose spluttering before Scott's heart could do more than lurch in his chest. Gordon laughed aloud and swam away, forcing Alan to chase him around the small pool at something between a breaststroke and a doggy paddle. None of his recent lingering fatigue there, Scott decided clinically. No sign of the headaches that had plagued Alan for the dreadful first few days.

He hadn't left Alan's side until the medical staff had taken matters into their own hands and drugged his coffee. Even then, he knew, the others had been with Alan constantly until their youngest brother had felt well enough to point out that a little peace and quiet might actually do his poor head some good. It had felt like a miracle as Alan made the transition from whimpering sufferer to grumpy invalid and finally to discharged nuisance. It could have been so much worse. The doctors had told them that he'd had got through the worst of his concussion on the submarine without medical intervention. If the swelling in his brain hadn't subsided unaided, Alan would have died in Stingray, despite the best efforts of Gordon and the W.A.S.P. crew.

"It didn't happen," Scott told himself quietly. But it might have.

He closed his eyes for a moment, imprinting the image of his four brothers in his memory. He never wanted to forget the tableau of them together, safe and well.

Gordon looked up from the pool, grinning broadly and waving as he spotted Scott above. Scott felt a distant pang of guilt as he failed to answer with a smile of his own and his brother's face fell. He managed a vague wave, turning back from the balcony's edge and stepping back into the cool of his bedroom.

He inspected it with a military thoroughness, his old training coming to the fore. He'd left a hundred barracks rooms this clean, this neat. Those of his belongings not already tucked into the two old kit bags under his bed were boxed and sealed in one of his storage closets. The painting on the wall was a view of the Island that Virgil had painted him, one of the first pieces his brother had actually allowed to be placed on display. He felt a dull pang of regret as his gaze slid past it, but Virgil would understand and Scott would never forget the sight of his home. Much as he'd like to take it, it ought to stay. Beyond that, only a few ornaments and the occasional picture frame remained to distinguish this from a comfortable room in a middle of the range hotel. He'd leave them too. If his father ever needed the space for visitors, it was only right that they wouldn't face completely bare walls and shelves.

He slid the kit bags out from under the bed frame, watching his hands doing the work, not really registering the motion until after the task was completed. They sat forlornly in the middle of the empty room. Scott tried not to look at them, or think about what they meant. His legs went momentarily weak as he failed, and he resisted the urge to sit on the bed. He'd left it made up and with fresh sheets. It wouldn't do to crumple them. No, he steadied himself instead against his desk chair. This wasn't a time for weakness.

It was time for the conversation he'd been putting off for the last week.

"Scott?" The knock at the door registered a moment later than it should have done. He felt a curious detachment as he walked to the door, opening it no more than a fraction, and met TinTin's brown eyes with his own dark blue. "Your father would like to speak to you, Scott," she reported in a soft voice.

Perfect timing. He'd been tempted to leave without a word, but he owed his father more than just sneaking out like a thief in the night. Now he had no choice. "Thank you, TinTin."

Scott sighed as the girl hesitated, one hand lifting and then falling in an indecisive gesture. "Is there anything else?"

TinTin took a deep breath, her voice soft. "Scott, is there something wrong?" She shook her head, a helpless expression on her face. "Have I said or done something to upset you?"

Scott gave her a smile and knew it didn't reach his eyes. It was a while since he'd managed that particular expression without a conscious effort of will. Longer still since he'd felt the warmth that he knew was supposed to accompany it. "Don't worry, TinTin. Nothing you'd do would ever upset me. I'll be there to see Father in a minute."

He closed the door on her, delaying not so much because he had anything to do as because he couldn't face the walk through the house with her liquid eyes on his back. He counted to thirty slowly before moving, taking his time and forcing his breathing to slow to a steadier pattern.

Only then did he go to see his father.

* * *

Jeff Tracy was gazing out of his own window when Scott arrived at the office. It was an awkward angle from here to the pool, but his father had obviously long since mastered the art of watching his sons while remaining unseen. Scott didn't interrupt his contented contemplation, just waited in the doorway until his father turned of his own accord.

"Scott!" Jeff Tracy sounded startled as he caught sight of the younger man. He cleared his throat, awkwardly. "Come in, son."

"You asked to see me, Father?" Scott's voice was toneless, devoid of emotion. He vaguely regretted that, but since the cold emptiness had settled inside him, there seemed to be little he could do about it.

His father's hesitation was uncharacteristic and Scott sensed that he was searching for the right words. He sat down behind his desk, leaning forward with his palms flat on it. Scott ignored his father's gesture that he should sit too, and remained standing rigidly in front of the desk. Jeff gave him a hard look. "I wanted to talk to you about International Rescue."

Scott nodded once, the motion sharp and efficient. "Do you want me to resign formally, Father?" he asked matter-of-factly, "Or would it be better if I just left?"

His father was taken aback, he could see that; probably as the result of his direct approach. No doubt Jeff had planned to build up to this.

"TinTin told me this morning that you had packed your bags."

Now it was Scott's turn to be surprised, albeit registering the feeling on an intellectual rather than emotional level. He'd thought his preparations had been more discrete than that. His father saw his discomfort, and gave a quiet chuckle.

"If you don't want TinTin going into your room, you should try returning your coffee mugs to the kitchen once in a while. You know she has to go on the prowl every so often to find out whether they've migrated to the rooms or have hidden themselves away somewhere to breed."

Scott nodded. He looked down at his hands, chiding himself for his lack of foresight. TinTin had lived on the island very nearly as long as the rest of them had. He knew her habits. He should have anticipated this complication.

"Scott! For goodness sake, will you stop those wheels turning in your head and actually look at me!"

His father's outburst jerked his head up, and his eyes widened instinctively. The Tracy patriarch might be occasionally brusque or even angry, but he rarely sounded upset. "Father, I …"

"I want to know what in heaven's name makes you think you're leaving this island!"

Scott's chin set into a stubborn line. This was why he'd considered setting off unannounced. He didn't need to hear the arguments. International Rescue was better off without him, even if they didn't see that at first. They would realise it in time, he was sure, when they'd had time to absorb everything that had happened. He had no intention of waiting until his father asked him to leave.

"I don't want to argue with you, Dad."

"Then that's too bad, son, because you don't have much of a choice." Jeff scowled, clearly wondering how to get through to him. Scott spared him the effort.

"My decisions led directly to what happened to Gordon and Alan – and to everything you, Virgil and John went through. Even if they were prepared to listen to me again, I'm not going to risk my brothers by giving them orders."

Jeff sighed, shaking his head slowly. "I've read the reports from Thunderbird One and from the satellite feed to Thunderbird Five, Scott. I've even looked over the technical report from the refinery," he added, pressing a button behind his desk. A wall panel slid aside and the office shelves filled with Tracy Industries paperwork slid into view, Jeff stood and strode towards it, grasping one particular folder without having to look for it, and turning to the executive summary. "'The ignition of sector five, leading to the encirclement of the control building and high potential risk of mortality, occurred when fire travelled through the pipe-work in a manner not evident to visual inspection. While the potential for such catastrophic heat transmission was inherent in the refinery design, it was not appreciated or evaluated in developing the site safety plan.'" He paused, closing the folder. "Scott, if the men who designed the system didn't know that would happen, how did you expect to?"

Scott shook his head, willing his father to understand. He kept his eyes straight ahead rather than letting his father's concern connect with him. He couldn't afford to start caring about this, even if he felt able to. "There were high resolution infrared scanners on Thunderbird One, Father. I should have run a detailed thermal sweep of the site before I set down."

Jeff harrumphed, settling back down behind his desk. "Yes, Scott, in retrospect you probably should have. In that, and in that alone," he raised a hand to silence Scott's attempted protest, "you made a mistake."

"Mistakes cost lives, father. You've drummed that into us often enough."

"I have. I just wonder whether I've reminded you often enough that you're human, and human beings make them. Scott, your information when you set down was that there was a clear path and men on the ground in need of assistance. The call was yours to make, but you didn't make it in isolation, and you had no way of knowing at the time whether the delay would cause more harm than good." He stroked his chin, shaking his head. "If we're going to start second guessing ourselves, there's always a fault to be found. John's tearing himself up about not giving you enough information, or at least he was until I talked a little sense into him. For that matter Virgil's been wallowing in guilt for not catching up with Thunderbird One sooner, and for having the wrong equipment with him when he did."

Scott felt a pang of guilt deep inside him. "They couldn't have done anything about either of those things!"

His father's wry smile defied Scott's interpretation. "Guilt isn't a rational emotion, son." He paused looking at Scott, and then went on. "When the doctor had given Alan a clean bill of health yesterday, he came to me to apologise for crashing Thunderbird One before asking if I was going to assign him extra work when I put him back on duty."

"That's ridiculous!" Scott couldn't suppress his outburst. "The kind of g-forces he was pulling, it's astonishing he didn't black out sooner. That plan was suicidal from the outset! I should never have allowed it …"

"You didn't, Scott." His father's voice was suddenly sharp, the expression on his face unyielding. "You agreed to it under protest. Your brothers overrode you, and _I'm_ the one who permitted the operation."

"If I hadn't been trapped …"

"Then the refinery workers still would have been encircled by fire, and ultimately I believe International Rescue would have reached the same conclusion. The only difference would have been that you were the one blacking out in Thunderbird One, not Alan, and Gordon wouldn't have been there to get you out."

"Dad – "

"No, son, you're going to listen to me if I have to shake you. Every risk International Rescue takes is a 'mistake' on some level. Every dangerous operation is a tragedy waiting to happen, but if we second-guess ourselves in hindsight, we're going to be crippled. What happened at the oil refinery was a freak accident. It was the one in a million chance that we've always prayed would never happen. And God help me for letting you think like this for so long, because, above all, Scott, _it was not your fault_."

Scott heard the words out in silence, trying to take them in, knowing intellectually that everything his father said was true, but unable to relate that knowledge to the frigid emptiness that was all he could feel. His father was watching his face keenly, willing him to understand. He hated to disappoint him. He hated the pain he was causing the man he looked up to more than any other.

"Father, you've already agreed that I was wrong to go in with mobile control, and I'd have launched Thunderbird Four over the crash site too if Virgil hadn't stopped me. I honestly don't see how you or the others could ever trust my judgement again."

His father's expression became tired and then, suddenly, decisive. His gaze dropped to his desk, and he bent over manipulating the buttons and dials there. The ashtray that he never used shifted and began to rise, revealing the speaker beneath. "Scott, I want you to listen to a conversation I had with one of your brothers earlier today."

His father didn't give him time to protest, or even to open his mouth. The speakers came to life with a quiet crackle of noise a split second before the first word.

"_Dad?"_

Scott blinked, recognising the higher-pitched undertone in Gordon's voice that meant his brother had something on his mind. "Does Gordon know you recorded this?"

Jeff smiled at him. "All conversations in this room are recorded for security reasons, Scott. Your brothers know that as well as you do. Now listen."

"_Dad, the fellas and I have been talking. We were wondering when we're going to get International Rescue going again. I mean, I know we won't have Thunderbird One for a while, but we're not exactly helpless without it."_

_Jeff's tone on the recording was considering. "Do you think you're ready to go back to it, Gordon?"_

"_Well, Virgil and John say they are, and Alan's practically champing at the bit."_

"_And you?"_

_Gordon hesitated for a long moment. "I wasn't sure at first I wanted it to go on," he said quietly._

Scott heard his own gasp a moment before he felt the emotion. Astonishment broke momentarily through the walls he'd built around that impossibly heavy emptiness. He'd thought Gordon least affected of all his brothers. It just showed how wrong he could be.

_His father sounded just as surprised. "At first?" he asked eventually._

"_I could see what it did to you all when you thought Alan and I were, well, dead. I…I wasn't sure I could stand the thought of you going through that again, and of me being the cause of it. I wasn't sure I could live with doing that to you if I died," Gordon broke off in momentary confusion, trying to follow his own logic through that sentence. "Well, you know what I mean. But, Dad, that's why we do this, isn't it? Because every time we're not there, a family somewhere has to go through what you all went through, only they don't get the happy ending. I knew that before, but I guess I've always focused on the people we're saving, not on the folks waiting for them back home. I always knew we were doing a good thing, Dad. I guess now I understand that a bit better."_

_Jeff was silent for a full ten seconds before he found his voice to reply. "Most people would think of their own lives, Gordon. It's a dangerous thing I ask you to do."_

_Gordon's grin was clearly audible. "You've never asked, Dad. You never had to. If saving all those people wasn't worth the risk, we'd never have signed up in the first place." He paused and the laughter faded from his voice. "None of us are going to back out now, Dad, not after so much. We made the decision for ourselves a long time ago, but I think we needed the reality check to appreciate its affect on each other."_

"_Indeed we did, son." Jeff's voice was proud, but tired. "As for missions, I'll think about it, I promise." There was a pause. "There's something else, isn't there, Gordon?"_

_Gordon's voice changed, becoming less certain. "Well, Dad, … it's Scott."_

_There was understanding in Jeff's tone at those few words. "We're all worried about him, Gordon."_

"_Dad, if International Rescue goes on, it's got to be because we think it's worth it – all of us. We all agree on that. And Scott's the only one we've not spoken to." _

_There was a pause. _

"_He's scaring us, Father. It feels … it feels as if he's giving up." Gordon's voice was rising, his tone obviously upset. "Scott never gives up, Dad! Never!" Gordon's voice became quieter as he reigned in his emotions. His father remained silent, clearly not sure what to say. "Dad, International Rescue won't function without him. Can you imagine Alan giving the orders in the field, or Virgil? Even Alan can see that would be a bad idea. John reckons that each time we went out without Scott we'd be less likely to succeed, and less likely to come back. We each have our strengths, sure, but it's Scott who ties them together. We need him."_

"_We've operated without Scott in the field before, Gordon."_

"_Yes, but we knew he was back here, listening in, or at least within a radio call." Gordon shrugged off the suggestion impatiently. "Scott's always been there, you see? I don't think any of us would feel safe without knowing he was. And I don't think we could get by as a team. We'd fly apart without him to bind us. It's not that we follow him blindly Father. We've had to change tactics mid-rescue dozens of time, and when he can, Scott lets us argue out the best approach. But when the chips are down, we'd walk on water or into the fire if he told us to, Dad, because there's no one whose judgement we trust more."_

Scott felt the dampness on his face as his tears made long tracks down his cheeks. For the first time in weeks he felt the strain as a sharp pain in his chest rather than the dull ache he'd grown so accustomed to.

He'd told himself that his family would be better off without him, and he'd believed it to the cold depths of his soul. If his father had tried to tell him otherwise – _when_ his father had tried – it had been easy to dismiss the arguments as insubstantial whimsy. The conviction in Gordon's voice told another story.

Gordon believed what he was saying.

His brothers needed him. And more, they wanted him.

He sank into a chair, his legs trembling as they failed to hold him. Suddenly the ice inside him had become a fire of roiling emotion, the heat of his affection for his brothers mingling with the utter terror he'd tried to forget and would always remember. He didn't see his father cross the room to hold him tight, stroking his hair as he cried.

The older man remained silent as Scott's tears became gentler weeping and then finally died away into a series of tired sobs. Scott opened his eyes to see his father pulling away, holding his shoulders and peering into his face as if afraid of what he'd see there. Scott blinked. The colours were brighter now, in a way he couldn't describe. And when he looked up, he wasn't seeing the abstract image of International Rescue's patriarch, he was feeling the warmth of his father's love and compassion.

Jeff Tracy gave a long, shuddering breath. "You're back," he said quietly. His knuckles rapped gently on the crown of Scott's head. "I thought I'd lost you, trapped somewhere up there."

The pain in his father's voice shocked Scott. He felt the impulse to retreat from it, to go to the quiet place where emotions happened to someone else, but he resisted. No matter how tempting, he could see that now for the trap it was. He tried to clear his throat, half-choking on a final sob.

"I … I can't keep them safe, Dad."

"No one can do that, son."

"I can't promise I'll always make the right decisions."

Now Jeff gave a rueful chuckle. "Anyone who did would be a liar. I know you'll try."

"Gordon really said all that?" He didn't doubt it had been Gordon's voice, but he needed the reassurance. This time Jeff smiled openly.

"One of his more eloquent days, I thought."

"Dad…"

"Yes, Scott?"

"It's worth it." Scott swallowed hard, dashing the last of his tears away with the back of one hand. He felt shaky. Doubts still darted through his head in a swarm, but Gordon's words had given him the strength to face them… for now, at least. "Saving people. Saving all their families too. If you're willing… if you'll have me … I'll do my best."

Jeff Tracy smiled. He stood, lending his red-eyed son a hand to pull him upright. As he spoke, he led the way out of his office and down through the house towards the pool. Scott hesitated, fighting the urge to cut and run, not sure he was ready for this, before he followed.

"We'll operate Mobile Control out of Thunderbird Two if there isn't anywhere safe on the ground. Virgil won't get you there as fast as you're used to, but Brains has been trialling an enhancement to Thunderbird Five's sensors. John or Alan should be able to give you a detailed scan of the danger zone almost as soon as you're airborne."

His brothers looked up as they came out onto the poolside, at first in confusion to see who their father was talking to, and then wide-eyed with expressions ranging from delight to deep relief.

Scott met their eyes in turn, trying to apologise for his remoteness and the anxiety he'd caused them with a look before returning his attention to his father. He cleared his throat. "How long until Thunderbird One is repaired?" he asked, and he felt as much as saw the sighs as they heard the real interest in his voice.

Gordon pulled himself out of the pool to sit on its edge, grabbing a towel to drape around his shoulders. He gave Scott a broad grin. "More like rebuilt. Brains is saying close on two months."

"It's going to be crowded up there on Thunderbird Two," Alan chipped in. "Not that I mind," he added hurriedly.

"Well, it's not going to be a problem for the first month at least," their father noted. "Alan, John, you're going to take the next month in the space station together."

"But, Father!"

"No arguments, Alan. The doctor may have cleared you as regards lying around on the Island, but rescues are another thing entirely. That was a nasty concussion and I'm not taking any chances."

John looked over the top of his book, his expression sanguine. "Hmm, it shouldn't be too bad. Maybe we'll get time for that discussion about leaving Thunderbird Five tidy that we never manage to have during handover, Alan."

Scott laughed aloud at the expression on his youngest brother's expression and the others joined in, even Alan when he realised he was being teased. His father winked at him before turning back to John.

"At least Alan lets me get a word in edgewise when he's on the space station," Jeff noted. Alan and Gordon exchanged looks, the delight on Alan's and the resignation on his brother's telling Scott which way the bet had gone. He struggled to keep a straight face as their father looked from one to the other in confusion before dismissing the issue. "Virgil, is Thunderbird Two checked and ready to go?"

"Yes, Father."

"Alan, Thunderbird Three?"

"Yes, Dad," Alan admitted grudgingly. Jeff smiled.

"Gordon?"

"Thunderbird Four is F.A.B., Father."

Jeff Tracy nodded, glancing at his two blond sons. "Then, pack your bags, boys. You're heading for Thunderbird Five in the morning. International Rescue is open for business."

"F.A.B." The acknowledgement came in a chorus.

Scott closed his eyes, soaking in the warmth of the sun as his family scattered around him, John and Alan to their rooms, Virgil deep in conversation with their father about a rearrangement of vehicles between the pods. When he opened them, Gordon was giving him a considering look, Scott returned it with a smile.

"Thanks."

"What for?" Gordon asked, confused.

"Ask me another time. I have some bags to go unpack."

Gordon started, his expression momentarily concerned, but then he just nodded briskly. "Want any help?"

Scott looked Gordon up and down as he stood on the edge of the pool, water still running off him despite a perfunctory swipe with his towel. "Are you going to drip on my carpet?"

Gordon grinned, standing and giving his hair a vigorous rub. "Give me a minute to dry off, and I'll be there."

Scott smiled a little shakily. He needed to do this, to put his attempt to divorce himself from his family behind him. But he didn't have to do it alone. "Thanks, Gordon."

Gordon answered with a laugh, tossing the wet towel at Scott, and smiling when his eldest brother dodged it with the ease of long practice. Gordon gave a mock bow as he headed to his room to change.

"What are brothers for?"

**The End**


End file.
